


Renegade's Legacy: More Than A Feeling

by reddawnrumble



Series: Renegade's Legacy 'Verse [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:08:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 49,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddawnrumble/pseuds/reddawnrumble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam stumbles onto Bobby's doorstep half-dead, with no memory outside of his four years at Stanford, Dean is faced with the hardest decision of his life. Sam finally has a chance to be normal, with no past to haunt him; but there's still someone out there who wants his blood. As Dean seeks vengeance on Sam's enemies, Sam himself is left with a token of a family he can't remember - and a feeling that he has someone to protect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_March 1 st, 2012_

_Singer Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, South Dakota_

Finally. Peace and quiet.

            Bobby leaned back against the armrest of the couch, feet propped up on the end, beer in hand. Storm was going like hell outside, hadn’t let up all day. Not snow like they were used to this time of year, but lotsa lightning, and thunder so loud it shook the windowpanes and made the whole house sound like it was haunted.

            Not that it was. Nothing in Singer Salvage Yard _could_ be. Not with the way Bobby kept the place up. Wards, seals, traps, and lately a circle of Holy Oil on the floor of the study that he could light up with nil effort from the desk or the couch. After that New Year’s Eve fiasco, Bobby’d about had enough of angels dropping in, invited or otherwise. Castiel he could tolerate; hell, he kinda liked the guy. But two angels was one too many and a whole garrison eating as his table made it feel like the Last Supper.

            Apart from the storm, though, whole place was quiet tonight. Quiet wasn’t something Bobby got much, between Sam and Dean always calling in favors and Rufus dropping by without calling in first. Not that he resented any one of them; Rufus was a lonely bastard and he’d rather Sam and Dean were staying in touch then going up against all the crap out there by themselves. Still. It could wear on a man.

But tonight, none of that really mattered. For the first time—hell, in months, Bobby Singer was having some time off. Relaxing. He’d been digging through the lore for two weeks straight looking for something about that girl that’d called Sam, and the monsters either going haywire or acting all out-of-sorts; whatever they were looking for, it was obscure. So tonight was a night to get drunk and enjoy a good storm inside a silent house.

            Bobby tipped his head back on the armrest.

            At any rate, all of the research could wait. Even though somebody was definitely up to _something_. Had to be. Monster reports starting to trickle in, not like anything Bobby had heard before in his life. Sounded like monsters were flipping out, or weirder, disappearing without a trace, and if the stories Bobby kept hearing from Rufus and Dean were true, both cases were scary as hell.

But he’d earned himself a couple hours off tonight to just listen to the storm with the phones dead quiet and no one bothering him, not even Sherriff Mills. And he hadn’t heard from Rufus in a coupla days, and not from Dean since right after Vegas a week and a half ago. He’d called in on his way to the east coast to take care of some sickness driving a bunch of local kids crazy. Bobby hadn’t asked about Vegas—didn’t wanna know—but something about Dean had definitely been different. Quieter. Kid had a lot on his mind.

            Sound of the wind and thunder was actually soothing. Bobby’s eyes slid shut and he set the beer bottle gently on the floor, rolling onto his side. Bed was upstairs, but couch would work just fine.

            Right when he was on the edge of drifting off, a sound started up on the other side of the kitchen; sounded like scratching. Not like, mice in the walls scratching, but more like dog at the doggy door. Except Bobby didn’t own a dog anymore, not since Meg had ganked his Rottweiler a few years back.

            He waited, listening. Tense. Hand sliding for the dagger wedged between the arm of the couch and the cushion—precaution. Tried to sort that scratching out in his mind—could be a tree branch in the wind. No. Too heavy. Kept getting heavier, then trailing off.

            “If that’s Rufus, I swear to God,” Bobby muttered, lurching up onto his feet and leaving the threat properly unfinished. He stomped for the door, flicking on the foyer light on his way. Tried to take a peek out the window; too dark to see anything, too much rain. Bobby kept the knife tucked behind his back and yanked the door open.

            Couldn’t see anything at first, couldn’t make out a shadow from another one, so it was a second before he realized there was actually a person standing in front of him. Another second before he shifted and the foyer light fell across a scooped-out, ashen face, jutting cheekbones, sunken dull eyes and a wasted frame.

            And that look. That look that’d kept hands from getting swatted out of cookie jars and pinned the blame on his older brother for years.

            “ _Sam_?” Bobby said incredulously.

            Sam convulsed away from him like Bobby’s raised tone was a threat. The rain plastered his hair to his forehead, but his skin looked like it was—steaming. How high of a fever would someone have to run to burn like that? One arm curled around his chest and a dark deluge of blood spread across the ripped front of his jacket.

            “Help me.” He said, his voice as hollow as his face was. “Please.”

            “Kid, what the hell do you think you’re—?” Bobby didn’t get a chance to finish the question as Sam’s eyes rolled up to the whites and he pitched over the threshold. Instinct made Bobby catch him by the shoulder, adjust his weight and lower him against the wall right inside the door. Bobby slammed the door against the wind and rain and knelt, cupped the side of Sam’s neck with his hand.

            “Sam. Sam!” He shook Sam’s head very lightly, with no reaction. Sam looked—worse than beat to Hell. Looked like he’d been Hellhound puppychow. The pulse under Bobby’s fingertips, faint and thready—getting fainter. “Boy, where’ve you been?”

            Pulling one of Sam’s oozing arms over his shoulders, Bobby maneuvered them both carefully to their feet, and headed for the Panic Room.

 

 

            Not much like waking up next to a brunette in the morning.

            Dean was sprawled on his back with her arm across his waist, her head on his chest; sunlight pouring in through the window of _her_ house, middle of Mulberry Street, Pleasantville. Yeah, she definitely wasn’t Lisa, and maybe part of Dean was missing that life this morning. But the lady had a right to be grateful. He’d just single-handedly vanquished a spirit that had been influencing children in the neighborhood, turning them into cannibals, and she’d been on the food chain. Wasn’t his fault how she wanted to express her undying gratitude.

            Dean closed his eyes, tucking an arm behind his head. Case had taken longer than he’d expected and he was still getting over freaking _Las Vegas_ and the case he and Castiel had stumbled into out there. But this ditzy South Carolina town was about as far from the Sin City as you could get, industrially, economically, definitely _morally_. Kind of a nice change up.

            The thin metallic strains of an AC/DC ringtone alerted Dean. He disentangled himself from the girl’s arms and reached for his jacket on the back of the bedside chair, grabbing his phone and checking the Caller ID. Taking the hit like a familiar pain when he saw it was just Bobby.

            He flipped it open. “Case’s a wrap, Bobby.”

            “Dean, you better get your backside back to Sioux Falls.” Bobby said without preamble. “I found Sam.”

            Dean sat straight up, every sense snapping back to livewire alert. “Found him. _Found_? Sam? What, like he was _hiding_ from us or someth—?”

            “Probably a better way’a puttin’ it would be, he found _me_.” Bobby interrupted. “Showed up on my doorstep in the pourin’ rain, middle of the night last night.”

            Dean rubbed a hand down his unshaven jaw and closed his eyes. Seven weeks of worrying about his brother, not hearing a single damn thing from him. Last week he’d found out a piece of _his_ soul was inside of Sam. They definitely had lot to hash out. Right now, though, it was enough to know he was back. “Thank God he’s okay.”

            “Actually, Dean. That’s why I called you fast as I could.”

            The relief started prickling up into something sharper on the back of his neck. Dean stiffened. “Bobby? What’s goin’ on?”

            “Sam’s not exactly in the same state he left us.” Bobby said with that old-man delicate thing that meant he was poking around the edges of something huge…like, cosmic, Lucifer-let-Death-out-of-the-hole huge.

            “The hell’s that supposed to mean?” Dean grated out, yanking his shirt on with one hand, maneuvering the phone to keep it pinned against his ear.

            “Means he’s unconscious, Dean, has been since he got here. And I’m telling you, it looks like Sam went through a woodchipper, or a…meat processor or some damn thing.”

            “Whoa, whoa, wait. You’re telling me someone tried to make meat pies outta _my_ little brother?” Dean demanded, stepping into his jeans. “When Sam wakes up, you gotta ask him who he—”

            “That’s the thing, Dean.” Bobby cut him off quietly, seriously, stopping Dean with one foot half-in his boot.

            “What.” He said, flatly.

            “Sam’s spiking a fever, I mean—the kind that’d fry most peoples’ brains. I can’t bring it down and he’s not coming around. There’s more to work with here than I know where to start.”

            “Call Cass.” Dean said.

            “Tried that a few times. Think he’s busy, or we’re not the first in the prayer line.”

            “Son of a bitch.” Dean swore. “What else can we do?”

            Bobby’s breathing was all that came over the line, measured and deep and uneven. Dean stat back from lacing up his boots, snatching the phone closer to his head. “ _Bobby_.”

            “Best I can offer is to try and keep the kid breathing until you get here, Dean.” Bobby said hopelessly.

            Dean’s suddenly numb fingers flexed around the phone. “You mean, to say goodbye.”

            “And that’s bein’ optimistic.”

            Dean glanced at the bed; girl was still tangled up in the sheets. She’d sleep through anything. Lucky him, they could skip the awkward part. Dean threw on his jacket and let himself out, heading straight for the Impala.

            “You tell Sammy I’m on my way, and he doesn’t get to go out on us this easy, or I’ll crawl up into Heaven and drag his Sasquatch ass back out. You hear me?”

            “ _Roger_ that.” Bobby said with a bite of sarcasm; then, more seriously. “Hurry, Dean. He’s hangin’ on by his fingernails.”

            “I’ll be there in a couple hours.” Dean dropped the call and punched the gas in, leaving a squealing smudge of black rubber on the pavement as he pulled out. Flexed his fingers on the steering wheel and realized he should probably be panicking.

            He wasn’t. Had one clear though in his head. Same as before Cold Oak. Same as before the last seal broke.

            Get to Sam. Get to Sam, _now_.

            Pedal flat to the floor, Dean felt the tension in his shoulder, forearms, wrists, white knuckles jutting under his skin.

            _You better wait for me, Sam. You’re not facin’ this alone._

Not this time.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_March 2 nd, 2012_

_Singer Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, South Dakota_

The front door was unlocked, but Dean still almost slammed it off its hinges.

All of the composure he’d had in South Carolina had melted away on the excruciatingly long car-ride, phone balanced on his leg, afraid that if it rang, that would be Bobby calling to tell him it was over. Sam had kicked it in without Dean there, without even having a fighting chance.

            That Bobby hadn’t called was a relief; it had to mean Sam was holding on.

            Dean thumped down the stairs to the basement two at a time, grabbing the post at the end of the staircase and swinging around it, coming up face-to-face with Bobby, who was leaning against the wall beside the panic room, arms crossed, head down. Looked like someone had kicked the crap out of him, emotionally.

            He looked up at the sound of Dean’s approach, eyes widening a little bit. Made Dean wonder what he was seeing; made him wonder if it was anger or fear or whatever the hell else he was feeling leaking through.

            “Dean,” Bobby said warningly.

            “Open the door.”

            Bobby hesitated for a split second, nodded, walked over and cranked open the Panic Room door. For half a second, standing beside Bobby, Dean wished this would be like every other time he’d been in here, facing this. Sam alive, ready to clock him one for being an ass, ready to bust out and get away—probably better than whatever was waiting on the other side of that door.

            Bobby hauled the door back, and Dean took a deep breath and held it in.

            The bass _whump_ of the massive overhead fan was the only sound other than a steady, continuous drip from an IV line taped into Sam’s arm. Dean had no idea where Bobby had even gotten the thing, and that didn’t even really matter. What he really noticed was how thin his brother’s arm looked—so much so that the needle seemed like it would pop out from under his skin.

            And something, something black standing out on his skin. Dean frowned. “What’s on his arm?”

            “Address. I tried scrubbin’ it off but it’s caked on there.”

            “Address? Whose address?” Dean demanded.

            Bobby looked at him. “Mine.”

            Sam’s head was turned toward them, like he knew they were there. One limp arm crossed over his chest. Breathing fast and erratic. There was a butterfly bandage above his left eye and dark shadows underneath. Looked like a reject Hell had spat back out—and Dean knew that for a fact. But the thing that made him feel like he had a knife shoved into his guts was how freaking _still_ Sam was. And hollowed out. Like something was sucking the life right out of him.

            Not a Shtriga. Not some kind of ghost, not something Dean could _fight_. Just his brother, on that cot, dying. And Dean couldn’t fight this battle with him.

            Bobby pulled in a slow, unsteady breath beside him. “Been lying there like that since I brought him down here. Dunno when was the last time he ate, or anything.”

“Bobby, we gotta do something.” Dean said fiercely. “We can’t just leave him like this!”

“Boy, nothing a hospital’s got that we don’t have except for pretty nurses and crap food.” Bobby was pulling his man-in-charge voice. “That kid is nine different kinds of messed up on the inside, and that’s somethin’ nobody can fix. You wanna call on Castiel, be my guest, he might listen to you instead’a me. But boy, I’ve done every damn thing I can for Sam. Rest is up to him.” He paused, taking a few deep breaths, getting a grip on his temper. “IV drip oughta hold him over until…” Bobby let that trail off. Knew better than to say it. Even if they were both thinking it.

            Dean looked away, struggling to keep a hold on his composure. “Gimmie a few minutes, Bobby?”

            Bobby’s jaw tightened. “You need me, you know where to find me.” He turned and slumped toward the stairs; Dean watched him go, wondering how long Bobby had been sitting down here with Sam, praying for Castiel, waiting for something. For the pulse in Sam’s throat to stop. For Dean to show up.

            Dean leaned his back against the wall and closed his eyes. “Cass. It’s me. Man, if you’re out there, if you can hear me, I need your help.” He turned his head sideways, checking in on the room. Seeing Sam like that again just kicked him while he was down. He thumped his head against the wall and sagged. “It’s Sam. Cass, he’s—” He broke off, squeezing his eyes shut, shoving his fist against his mouth until he could get his breathing back under control. Hardest prayer of his damned life, but he _needed_ to say it, get it out. If there was a chance. “He’s dying. I don’t know what to do. If you can get down here and heal him…”

            He waited a few seconds, opened his eyes.

            No Castiel. He did a whole sweep of the basement and turned up nothing. Ripping his hands back through his hair, Dean glared at the Panic Room door. “All right, screw you too, Cass.”

            Dean felt like he was five years old again, stepping into the room, shutting the door behind him. Knowing there wasn’t an angel coming to fix this whole thing up, he was on his own with Sam just lying there on the bed. Nine kinds of messed up, Bobby had said. At least Bobby had cleaned up the blood. But man, Sam looked like a mummy under that shirt. Stitched together and bandaged up and barely holding on.

            Dean leaned back against the wall, listening to the fan, eyes fixed on his brother. Sick of being in this place, sick of this feeling. Sick and tired. Even when he was trying to do the right thing, people around him wound up getting hurt. Ever since Dad—hell, ever since _mom_. His family just kept shrinking down. Harder he held on, faster they slipped away.

            “Bobby, uh,” Dean cleared his throat. “He wants me to tell you goodbye.” Mouth furrowed slightly, Dean shook his head. “Goodbye’s not really our style, though, right? Too emo and socially awkward.” There was a hard, empty silence while Dean watched his brother breathing. “I don’t know if you’re here, Sam. Maybe your spirit’s creepin’ on me.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Can’t let you go, Sam. I just got you back outta that cage, I’m not lettin’ you bail out on me that easy.”

            Dean walked over, bracing both hands on the cot, leaning over it. “Dammit, Sam! This isn’t what dad taught us. Winchesters don’t crap out, we keep fighting. That means you, too. Hear me?”

            Fan kept spinning. No answer. This close, hands fisting up the sheet on the cot, Dean could feel the heat coming off of Sam’s skin.

            Dean gritted his teeth. “ _C’mon_ , Sam!”

            “Dean?”

            He straightened up, turning toward the door.

            Castiel’s brow was furrowed with worry, blood staining the front of his trenchcoat. Looked like he’d been flying through a hurricane.

            Dean didn’t ask. “Cass—”

            “Let me see him.” Castiel shoved past Dean, leaning over the cot, his hand on Sam’s forehead, brushing his hair back a few times, then going still. Dean watched the angel’s blue eyes flicking, like he was reading something written in Sam’s skin. A few seconds later he straightened up. “He’s badly injured, Dean.”

            “Yeah, I _noticed_.” Dean snapped. “So fix him.”

            “It’s more than that.”

            “Cass.” Dean said, voice breaking slightly. He snapped a hold back on himself. “He is _dying_. Whatever you gotta tell me, it can wait.”

            Castiel looked like he was going to argue that point; then he frowned and put his hand back on Sam’s forehead. Two seconds…three seconds…he stepped away to stand beside Dean. “It’s done.”

            Dean looked from his brother to Castiel and back again. “Okay. So why isn’t he _awake_ now?”

            “It’s what I was trying to tell you before.” Castiel said, obviously frustrated. “These wounds go deeper than his physical form, Dean. Everything inside of him—his mind, his soul—they’re so wounded, I can feel their pain without direct contact.”

            “Something _brainraped_ him?” Dean growled.

            “That’s incredibly crass. But for lack of a better explanation, yes.”

            Dean snarled out his breath. “Whatever it is, I’ll kill it. I’ll rip it’s freaking _throat_ out.”

            “No.” Castiel turned to face him. “Your brother needs you here now, Dean. When he wakes— _if_ he wakes. He’s locked inside of himself, it seems. I’m not sure how deeply these wounds go.”

            “Is the wall still up?” Dean asked, not really sure he wanted to know the answer.

            “With everything else cluttering his mind, it’s impossible to tell. If he wakes, I’ll be able to give you a clearer answer.” Castiel headed for the door. “Pray for me if there’s any change, Dean.”

            “Wait a second!” Dean said, and Castiel stopped. “What the hell happened to you, anyway? Why didn’t you answer Bobby? He’s been praying for a _day_!”

            “I’ve told you before, Dean, I have other duties.” Castiel cut a glare toward him. “I was engaged in a battle against one of Raphael’s followers. I was fortunate to escape with my vessel still intact.”

            Dean wanted to pin more blame and anger on the angel, but he knew what fighting a war did to a person. Made you calculated. Had to take things one step at a time. Stepping out of a fight—not the easiest thing to do.

            “You think he’s gonna die, Cass?” Dean asked quietly, moving his gaze around the room, looking anywhere but at the angel.

            “I hope not, Dean. He’s very weak.” Castiel’s mouth pressed into a thin line and he looked away. “I’ll be in touch.”

            Dean turned away before Castiel had a chance to vanish. Walked over to the cot and put his hand on the side of Sam’s neck; his pulse was still weak and thready and he was burning up. Frowning, Dean sat on the edge of the cot.

            “Hey. You miss the memo, Sam? Cass did his mojo. You’re supposed to be all shiny and new, y’know, puppy on Christmas kinda thing.”

            No one to laugh at his flat joke. Dean leaned over, hauled the bucket of cool water closer and pulled out the rag. He wrung it out and draped it across Sam’s flushed forehead, knuckling his brother’s temple.

            “I’m right here, Sammy.” He said softly. “Right here. And it’s gonna take more than the Devil or some uppity angels to drag me away this time.”

 

 

            In the end, he was right. It took Bobby’s threats to get him to leave.

            “He’s held on this long, it’s longer than we figured.” Bobby said, leaning against the door with his arms crossed. “When was the last time you slept, boy?”

            Dean looked up; sitting in the chair shoved against the wall, he’d been cleaning his gun for the fourth time. He’d been down here for—God, days. Snatching sleep when he could. Not seeing much sunlight. Keeping an eye on Sam, who never moved a damn inch except to breathe.

            “He’s doin’ enough sleeping for both of us.” Dean lifted his chin in Sam’s general direction and went back to brushing out the barrel.

            “That excuse may’a worked on your daddy, but I got a brain in this head and I’m not about to let that one slide.” Bobby straightened up. “I can keep on eye on him, Dean. You go eat something, get some sleep.”

            “Told him I wasn’t leaving. And I’m not leaving, Bobby.”

            “Oh, _please_. Enough with the guilt trips, princess. I know Sam, if he’s held on this long, he’s not goin’ anywhere. Now you go upstairs and get some food or so help me, there’ll be _two_ Winchester boys passed out in here.”

            “All right, all right, _fine_.” Dean muttered, hunching onto his feet. He was so tired he was almost seeing double. “Gimmie a holler if anything changes.”

            “You know I will.” Bobby went for the rag and water; Sam’s fever was still running high, a lot higher than Dean liked. He hesitated in the doorway, then gave himself room to walk away, to drag himself upstairs and into the kitchen.

            There was a plate full of sandwiches on the counter. Probably something Bobby had left out just for him. Dean grabbed one off the top and wandered into the study, looking at everything without really seeing it. His head was still downstairs, buried up to the eyeballs in wondering what else he could do to help his brother.

And finally, his gaze falling on a map Bobby had spread out on his desk. He frowned, walked around the edge of the desk, took a closer look. Newspaper clippings pinned to the map, circled in jagged rings with a Sharpie marker.

“What are you sniffin’ up, Bobby?” Dean muttered, resting his fingertips over one of the circles. Looked like the news stories were all about out-of-season storms, cattle dropping dead. Dean frowned. “Omens?”

What made him nervous was that Bobby had tracked the distance between the outbreaks and where they were, right on the edge of Sioux Falls.

He finished off the first sandwich, grabbed two more from the kitchen and went back downstairs.

            Bobby met him at the door, yanking it open before Dean could shove through. “You call that a break?”

            “This isn’t a stakeout, Bobby.” Dean brushed past him, heading straight for his chair. “It’s not a job. And it’s not something I can just walk away from.” He bit the sandwich, chewed, and gave Bobby a defiant glare.

            Bobby pulled off his hat and scrubbed his knuckles over his thinning hair. “Boy, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

            “Eh. Well, let’s hope not.” Dean sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I saw the map.” He met Bobby’s gaze. “You tracking omens?”

            “I’m makin’ calls. Rufus is on it.” Bobby glanced worriedly at Sam. “I don’t like that fever, Dean. You’re sure Cass healed him?”

            “Bobby. Cass may not be the sharpest nail in the toolbox, but he knows how to work that whole Monica, Search-and-Rescue thing. If he says he healed Sam…he healed him. All the,” He broke off, looking at Sam. “Parts he could.”

            “Well, balls.” Bobby muttered. “Guess we just gotta sit it out, then.” He rumpled his shoulders inside his denim shirt. “I hate _sittin’ it out_.”

            He headed back upstairs, and Dean flicked on a small smile, still leaning forward, still watching Sam. Still not moving. Dean wondered if he was even dreaming. Or was he buried so deep in himself; so deep in that freaky head of his, he couldn’t see daylight?

            And Dean was out here. His whole life, he’d been trying to fight the fight beside his dad, beside Sam. Watch their backs, keep them safe, and all he needed in return was having them right there doing the same thing for him.

            He’d been sitting down here for days. Wondering if Castiel could project him into Sam’s head so he could help him out. Wondering how he could get in touch with Death again, give the horseman a piece of his mind for that crap wall he’d built. Wondering what had done this to Sam, how he was gonna find it, and how he was gonna make it suffer before he killed it. Alistair’s star pupil, prize torture-machine from Hell, he knew a lot of ways to make things work. Make things bleed.

            And none of that stuff really mattered, because his ass wasn’t moving from this house until something changed.

            “Let you down again, didn’t I?” Dean said softly, staring at Sam’s inert face; his hands clasped, shoulders slumped, Dean felt like the ceiling was caving in on him. “I shoulda been there. I shoulda come lookin’ for you the second I started having those dreams.” He got up, walked over to the wall beside the door, gave it a solid punch. And then leaned his forehead against it. “I shoulda been there, Sammy.”

            He gritted his teeth, breaths forcing their way from his mouth, fist, forehead pressed against the wall, eyes squeezed shut. Every muscle felt like a tight wire humming under his skin.

He was maybe a little surprised, definitely frustrated when the tear slipped out of the corner of his eye. He reached up, swiped it off fast, like anyone could see, or cared. He’d been in Vegas, gambling, solving a case, actually having a good time. He should’ve been looking for Sam. Maybe weeks before that. But he hadn’t. He’d been too wrapped up, making too many excuses.

He nudged his head closer to the wall. Barely breathing it out, voice breaking: “What am I supposed to do?”

            Something creaked.

            Dean went totally stiff and still, listening. Pretty sure he was imagining it. If he wasn’t: old house. Old houses creaked all the time.

            That sound didn’t come from any shifting floorboards.

            Fist still shoved against the wall, Dean looked over his shoulder.

            For the first time in days, Sam was moving; his head rocking back and forth slightly against the pillow, whole face a twisted, contorted rictus of agony. Dean stared at him wide-eyed, shaken up and frozen, not sure what he was supposed to do.

            “Sam?”

            His brother’s eyes ripped open. Hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, Sam picked his head up weakly, looking around the room, frantic gaze flying to every corner so fast Dean could barely track it.

            “Wh…where…gyuh!” Sam hunched over, grabbing his midsection. Dean darted to the bedside.

            “Hey, hey, just take it easy.” He said.

            “Where the hell—?” Sam pulled himself up onto one elbow, gasping, coughing, sounded like he was choking. Dean reached out to grab his arm and Sam flinched away. Dean retreated, holding up both hands, worried and confused.

            “Easy, Sam! You’re at Bobby’s, all right?”

            “Bobby? Bobby _who_? What the hell is…?” Sam grabbed for his forehead, fingers tangled up in his hair. Terrified eyes fixed on Dean’s face, Sam’s jaw working soundlessly, color draining of out his face:

 “Who are you?”

           

 


	3. Chapter 3

_March 4 th, 2012_

_Singer Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, South Dakota._

Dean stared at his brother. Stricken.

“Ha, ha. Very funny, Sam.”

            “This isn’t a joke! Who are you and what do you want from me?” Sam demanded. Before Dean could answer: “Jessica.” Sam dropped his hand from his hair suddenly, gaze twitching toward the floor. “Where is she?”

            Something about this wasn’t right, it was grabbing Dean, forcing his head under. Struggling to keep up with the situation. “She, uh, she’s not here.”

“You son of a bitch, if you hurt her—!” The threat fell flat when Sam hunched over again, gagging with pain.

Dean’s concern beat out his shock. He moved back toward the cot again, taking it slow this time, hands still up. “You need to relax, Sam.”

            Sam stared at him, looking like a panicked deer caught in the headlights. “I don’t know who you are or where I am, but…please. Let me go. I need to get back. Stanford. I need to…” Sam started shivering, like maybe he’d stepped into a cold spot where the temperature dropped a solid twenty degrees. “I have to go home.”

            “Sam. Stanford’s not home. What else do you remember?” Dean demanded. Sam looked away and Dean snapped his fingers, making Sam flinch again. “Hey! Eyes over here, pal! Tell me what you remember.”

            “Stanford.” Sam said shakily. “I remember being at school. Last night.”

            “Sam.” Dean said softly, straightening. “That was six years ago.”

Sam stared at him, eyes wide. “You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not.” Dean pulled out his phone and held it out to Sam, the date on the screen in bright pixilated color. “It’s March. _Twenty-twelve_.”

Sam’s stared at him, pale and shaking. “That’s impossible. I just—I fell asleep with Jessica _last night_. Halloween.”

“Sam.” Dean said quietly. “Look, I’m sorry. That was a long time ago. You just turned up out here beat to hell a few days ago. We’ve been tryin’ to keep you alive.”

Sam grabbed and tugged at his filthy hair. “What’s _happening to me_?”

“Man, I dunno. But we’re gonna figure it out, all right? I promise.” Dean said. “We’ll figure out what the hell is going on.” He leaned down, hands braced on his knees, his face on Sam’s level. “You trust me?”

“Trust you?” Sam echoed harshly. “You _kidnapped_ me.”

“Man, I told you! _You_ found _us_. We saved your friggin’ life!” Dean snapped. Sam’s chin rolled onto his chest and he shoved the heels of his hands against his forehead. “Hey! Hey, hey, hey, look at me. Sam, look at me.” Dean shoved a hand back through Sam’s hair, tipping his head until their eyes met. “Look into my eyes. And you tell me you don’t trust me.”

Sam frowned, breathing hard. “I don’t even _know_ you.”

“I know.” Dean gave Sam’s hair a gentle yank. “Tell me you don’t trust me.”

Sam pulled in a long breath. “I trust you.”

Dean nodded once. “That’s what I thought. All right, listen up. You gotta keep trusting me, Sam. No matter what you hear. No matter what happens. Trust me. Okay?”

Sam nodded, eyes sliding shut.

Dean stepped forward, “C’mere,” grabbed Sam’s arm gently and pulled him to his feet. Sam stared at him, swaying, looking exhausted, confused, totally lost.

And looking at Dean like he was a stranger.

Dean hugged Sam hard, fingers tangled up in his brother’s messy dark hair, ignoring the way Sam went rigid and bucked against the hold. And it took less than a minute for Sam to respond: lean into the embrace. Less a hug and more like he was too weak to stay up on his own anymore. The fight had taken everything straight out of him. Dean could feel him closing his eyes.

Could tell this wasn’t a game.

Sam didn’t remember his life.

Didn’t remember Dean.

Dean swallowed, lips flaring, choking down the intensity of the pain that threatened to drown him.

“I got you, all right? You can sleep, Sam. I got you.”

He felt how immobile Sam was, tense, mistrust in every line of him, every part that Dean could feel. But eventually the shivering stopped, and he relaxed, sinking deeper into Dean’s embrace. Dean faltered back onto the bed, awkwardly holding Sam up.

So this was it. This was what’d been lurking inside Sam’s head, inside that coma for three days. A big black sucking hole of _nothing_. Sam didn’t remember life outside of Stanford. Maybe it was temporary. Maybe not. But something had happened, had cracked Sam’s hold on reality. And Dean hadn’t felt this alone in two years.

Dean didn’t notice Bobby come in. Didn’t notice anything but Sam, helpless, cradled in his arms. He was like a little kid again.

“I got you, little brother.” Dean whispered.

“He wake up?” Bobby asked, relief kicking his tone up a few octaves.

Dean looked up at Bobby, eyes burning. “He doesn’t remember us, Bobby.”

Bobby stared at him. “You’re kiddin’ me.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” Dean said hoarsely.

Bobby shrugged slightly. “You gonna call Cass?”

“No.” Dean shifted Sam so he was more or less sitting up, still asleep. “I wanna talk to Sam first. Get his side of the story.”

Sam twitched slightly in Dean’s arms, a spasmodic jerk of his limbs. Dean held on tighter. Like there was something he needed to protect Sam from. But he couldn’t figure out what it was. It was just hanging there. Lurking in the corners of the room. Right under Dean’s skin.

“How’s his fever?” Bobby asked, not moving any closer. Dean wriggled one arm loose from under Sam and felt his forehead.

“Cooled off. Still not back to normal.”

“Keep usin’ that rag on ’im.” Bobby ordered. “Might actually do some good now that he’s rallyin’.”

Dean looked up at Bobby, helplessly. “I don’t know how to help him, Bobby.”

“Keep doin’ what you always do.” Bobby said. When Dean didn’t move, just stared, Bobby rolled his eyes. “ _Love_ on him, Dean. Sam knows how to speak that language, right?”

Dean snorted out a laugh. “Yeah. ’Cause he’s a wimpy little bitch.” Dean jostled him slightly. “Hear that, Sam?”

Bobby frowned. “Losin’ his memory, Dean…you sure it’s not just temporary?”

“Man, Bobby. What do you think I’m hoping for?”

Bobby’s mouth twisted down. “I gotta go take care of somethin’.” He said. “I’ll make that kid some soup for when he wakes up.”

“Thanks.” Dean said. “Hey, Bobby?”

“Yeah?”

“What kinda monster can wipe someone’s memory like that?”

Bobby shrugged. “Beats the hell outta me, Dean. What I wanna know is why we ain’t heard of this happenin’ before.”

“Could be a new breed. Some big badass that Purgatory crapped out.”

“You stay off that warpath until we get your brother back on his feet. Ya hear me?” Bobby said sharply.

“Why does everybody keep saying that?” Dean snapped. “ _Yes_. I’m sticking around until we fix Sam.”

“All right, just makin’ sure. Good grief, don’t bite my head off, boy, I ain’t got a spare one.” Grumbling, Bobby let himself back out of the room.

 

 

Sam didn’t wake up that night, but at least his fever kept going down. By sunrise—Dean figured it was sunrise, felt like morning—Sam was totally out of it but breathing steady. And completely, hair-sticking-up soaked in sweat.

Bobby came down to grab him for breakfast and Dean finally let himself leave, mostly because he’d been smelling grilled cheese for an hour and damn, he was hungry.

“Hope he’s up to showering on his own, ’cause I’m not givin’ him a sponge bath when he wakes up.” Dean muttered as he followed Bobby upstairs. Kitchen smelled like tomato-soup heaven; Dean grabbed a bowl and headed into the study, taking a look at Bobby’s maps again. He checked out the connected lines, frowning. The way Bobby was tracking it around Sioux Falls still bothered him. “So, these all demonic omens, Bobby?”

“Yep.” Bobby joined him by the desk. “This all goes back over the last six or seven weeks. No patterns. Yet.”

“Any connection to Sam?” Dean asked.

“You mean any omens in Memphis?” Bobby said, and Dean lifted his eyebrows. “Nope. Not since Sam was there, anyway.”

“Then what’s their gameplan?”

“Ya got me. Biggest pocket of activity we got is outside Arco, Idaho.”

“Arco?” Dean echoed, leaning his flat hands on the desk and studying the map. “What’s out there?”

“Craters of the Moon.” Bobby said. Dean cut him a curious look and he added, “It’s a national monument. Lotta history out there. Shoshone land, back in the day. They cleared out after some volcanic explosion ripped the place apart. Made this thing called the Great Rift, it’s some huge crack in the crust of the Earth. Volcanic park, for most people. Looks like the demons got a hankerin’ for whatever’s out there, too.”

“All right, so why this place?”

“Shoshone legends say, the volcano didn’t just erupt. Some sorta _fiery serpent_ chewed the place all to hell.”

“What, like a dragon?” Dean demanded.

“Ah, accordin’ to them, place is haunted by the Devil himself.”

Dean pulled a dry, unhappy smile. “Well, we know _that’s_ a load’a crap. Lucifer’s still down in the pit.” He waited until the silence got uncomfortable, then changed the subject. “So you think maybe the demons are after that serpent? If it’s real?”

“That’s what I’m tryin’ to find out.” Bobby plucked his cell phone off the desk and held it up. “Rufus is in Arco pullin’ up the history. Storms are bad out there, so they got the monument closed off for now.”

“Yeah, well, let’s hope that’s enough to protect people from the demons.” Dean nodded to the phone. “You sure Rufus can handle this by himself?”

“What, you _tryin_ ’ to ditch me, boy?”

“Hey, look, I just don’t wanna see anything happen to Rufus, all right?” Dean grabbed the bowl of soup and finished it off in a few gulps, to hell with manners. “All I’m sayin’ is, if you wanna head out there and back him up, I can hold down the fort.”

“Uh-uh, can’t get rid of me that easy.” Bobby said. “’Sides, I leave the two’a you alone, won’t be much of a house to come back to.”

Dean pulled a face. “Can’t argue with that.”

“Uh…excuse me?”

Both men turned toward the doorway.

On his feet and standing up on his own for the first time in days, Sam looked more like a skeleton than Dean had given him credit for. His forehead poked out like it was shoving free of his skin. He had a hand clapped to the inside of his elbow, a trickle of blood running between his fingers.

“Whoa.” Dean straightened. “Uh, dude. You’re bleeding.”

“Yeah, um, can I have a band-aid?” Sam asked. Not joking. Like this wasn’t the same person who’d usually tie a bar rag around a bullet hole and let a needle wound heal on its own.

“Might be a box in the bathroom.” Bobby said, swinging into the situation when Dean just kept staring at Sam. “’S’cuse me, ladies.” He headed past Sam and Sam ducked politely out of the way.

“Is that—?” He started after a second.

“Yeah, that’s Bobby. King of the castle.”

“And you are—?” Sam trailed off, waiting.

“I’m, uh.” Dean’s voice hitched up. Crap. Like he’d ever thought he’d end up ass-deep in this. Like he ever thought he’d have to tell _Sam_ who he was. “How’re you feelin’?”

Sam frowned but let it slide. “Better, I…I guess.” He frowned slightly, with that goofy little smile he usually got when he was confused as hell. “Feel like I got hit by a truck.” He looked up at Dean. “You saved my life. Didn’t you?”

“Hey, don’t mention it.” Dean said unsteadily.

“No I _should_ thank you. I mean, I don’t remember much of what happened, but I think you pulled me off the edge of something major, here.” Sam’s gaze fell on the abandoned plate of sandwiches, eyes widening. “I’m starving.”

“Ah-ah-ah, Bourne.” Dean snatched the plate out of Sam’s reach. “Start off small, all right?” He forced a hollow laugh. “God knows last time you ate.”

Sam frowned again, eyes darkening. “Yeah.”

“Here.” Bobby reappeared behind Sam, handing him a box of band-aids. “Sorry. They’re Batman.”

“Dude, those things’ve been around since we were kids.” Dean said out of the corner of his mouth. Bobby shrugged.

“Thanks.” Sam pulled one out and pressed it on over the hole where the IV had gone in. He blinked up at them rapidly, Dean and Bobby staring back. “Hey, you mind if I sit? I feel a little—” He broke off, eyes squinting shut. “A lot. Dizzy.”

“C’mon, Sasquatch.” Dean grabbed Sam’s arm and helped him over to the couch, where Sam flopped down in an unceremonious, tangled sprawl. Dean perched on the arm of the couch and Bobby sat beside him.

“You wanna tell us what you remember?” Bobby asked carefully.

Sam’s eyes went strained at the corners. He fisted one hand and thumped his flat palm on top of it, looking down. “Not much. I remember getting to Stanford. I remember being there, going to school, meeting Jessica.” He looked up at Dean. “But before that, it’s like this big black whole where my life happened. And after.” He glanced at Bobby. “Is it really twenty-twelve?”

“Year the world ends.” Bobby said sarcastically. Sam smiled slightly, dropping his gaze back to the floor again. “Anything else you remember?”

Sam clapped his hands on his knees, running his palms across the worn-out denim. “That’s about it. Sorry.”

“All right, what about this?” Dean reached over to grab Sam’s arm and Sam jerked out of his reach, a brief flash of panic in his eyes. Dean froze, then put on his best ironic brother face. “Hey, I’m not gonna hurt you, Sam.”

“I-I know. At least, I think I do.” Sam frowned again. “Sorry.” He held his arm up and Dean took it gently, running the pad of his thumb over the markered-on words on his skin: Bobby’s address.

“Where’d you get this?” Dean asked.

“Why?”

“Because, Sam.” Bobby shifted closer to him. “How d’you think we know your name? You’ve been here before, boy, right here on this couch.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “I don’t,” He looked up at Dean, then around at Bobby. “I don’t remember this place. I don’t remember either of you.”

“We noticed.” Dean set Sam’s arm down in his lap. “But you had to know enough to come here, right?” Sam looked away. “Sam? We need to know why you wrote Bobby’s address on your arm.”

“I don’t know. Maybe, subconsciously, a part of me remembered him?” Sam suggested. “I wish I could help you more. I do, and I’m really sorry. But that’s all I got.”

They sat in silence for a couple minutes, Dean watching Sam watching the floor, Bobby keeping eyes on them both. Finally Bobby shoved up onto his feet.

“Sam, you hungry?”

“Starving, actually. Thanks.” Sam said.

Bobby walked out and Dean finally focused in on what was bothering him. “Hey, Sam?” He waited for Sam to look at him before he dropped the question. “How come you’re not freaking out about this? I mean, losing your memory …you only remember, what, four years outta your life?”

“Man, I am freaking out.” Sam said quietly. “Part of me wants to get on a bus back to Stanford as soon as I can. But I’m tired, too. I can’t start running until I know where I’m going. And right now,” He shrugged helplessly. “Here feels safest.”

“With two total strangers?” Dean chuckled. “You sure know how to pick your battles, Sammy.”

“Okay, that’s creepy. Don’t call me that.”

Dean swallowed hard. “Hey, whatever you say.”

Bobby came back, this time with a bowl of soup. He handed it to Sam, who started in on it like he hadn’t eaten in days. Which he hadn’t. But, still. Kid was eating like a hungry wolf.

“So,” Sam said between bites. “How do I know you two? I mean, how _did_ I know you. Before?”

“We’re—” Bobby started.

Something clicked inside of Dean, something cold and hard and determined, and he interrupted. “Bobby’s an old friend of yours, Sam. And me?” He kicked one boot up on the edge of Bobby’s desk. “Well, I’m your friend, too.”

“I still didn’t get your name.” Sam said with amusement.

“I don’t get that intimate ’til the second date, pal.”

Sam smiled and went back to his soup.

“Well, all righty, then.” Bobby said awkwardly after a pause. “Anything else you wanna know, Sam?”

“Mmm.” Expression intent, Sam nodded and swallowed. “Do I have a family?”

Bobby stiffened. “Well, sure, boy, everybody’s got a family.”

“Great. So, uh, my mom? My dad? Where are they?” He looked from Dean to Bobby and back again, the distress slithering into his eyes. “They’re okay, right?”

And this was Sammy, this is what Dean had seen locked down inside of him for a long time. His brother, concerned about parents he didn’t even _remember_. Didn’t remember his mom had burned on the ceiling and his dad had sold his life to a demon, to save Dean.

A demon.

Dean sat up straighter. “Sam. You know what ectoplasm is?”

A confused laugh burst out of Sam’s chest and his forehead furrowed with uncertainty. “A, uh, really gross energy drink?”

Dean pulled a taut, flickering smile. “I need a beer.”

He walked into the kitchen, grabbed a beer, popped the top off and leaned his fists on the counter, bowing his head.

Sam not remembering him—Dean was working through that. Not remembering Bobby, Mary, or John. They could fill in the gaps.

But Sam not remembering _hunting_.

Dean felt like the armor on his sides had stripped off, exposing his weak flanks. Sam not knowing what was lurking in the shadows, not knowing how to use a gun, how to exorcise a demon—verbally or with Ruby’s pig-sticker. He might as well have been a baby again. A helpless, naïve little kid.

Somehow, even with Sam forgetting everything else, Dean had hoped that would stick. That Sam would remember how to defend himself, and have Dean’s back once he was back on his feet. 

And now that foundation was cracking up under his feet. The only thing that him and Sam had ever really connected on. Common denominator: hunting. The family business.

“Oh, my God.” Dean muttered, dragging a hand down his face and walking back into the study.

Bobby and Sam were still sitting on the couch; Sam looked up when Dean walked in, and the look of relief on his face socked Dean right in the stomach. Why did Sam care so much about someone he didn’t even know?

But this wasn’t Sam. Not exactly. This was Sam without a hunter’s instincts, without the demon blood on his mind, the guilt of being soulless, all the fights and hate and all the crap that’d been piling up over the years. Kid Sam. Free to trust, didn’t understand how bad the world really was. How his brother had let him down. Didn’t even realize he _had_ a brother standing right in front of him.

Dean was just a guy who’d saved his life.

“So, if I haven’t been at Stanford for…six years?” Sam glanced at Bobby, and Bobby nodded grudgingly. “Where was I all this time?”

Bobby opened his mouth to answer and Dean cut him off. “Let’s save that story for some other time, all right?” When Sam shot him a confused look, Dean held up both hands. “Hey, you’ve been on your feet for a couple hours, Sam. Let’s take it slow.”

“Yeah, sure.” Sam nodded reluctantly. “Listen, do you guys mind if I stay here? I know I’m not…probably not the same person you remember, but if I’m not intruding—”

“Wouldn’t have you anyplace else, boy.” Bobby said quickly. “You can sack up in the basement. Sure he’ll stay with ya.” He jerked his head at Dean.

“Listen, uh, Bobby. Right?” Sam said, and Bobby nodded again. “I appreciate your help, but,” He pulled a slight, toothy grin. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Babysittin’ has got nothing to do with it, Sam. You show up on my doorstep beat to within an inch of your life, and someone had to have done that to ya. I’m not leavin’ you alone all night. Understand?”

Sam blinked. “Yes, sir.”

Dean, tipping the beer bottle back for a drink, froze, looking at Bobby. He had an expression like he’d just swallowed a rock. He reached over and clapped Sam gently on the cheek, then grabbed his shoulder and shook him.

“All right.” Bobby cleared his throat and got up. “Somethin’ I gotta do…outside.”

He slammed the door on his way out, rattling the pictures on the wall. Sam looked at Dean, wide-eyed and maybe a little hurt, confused.

“Did I do something?” He asked uncertainly.

“First thing you gotta know about Bobby? He’s a grumpy old badger.” Dean headed for the door. “Wait here, all right?”

He found Bobby outside, not far away; sitting in the cab of an old beater Mustang Dean had seen around for a long time. Radio on. Not going anywhere, head tipped back on the top of the seat.

Dean hit his knee against the door, hands in his pockets, and Bobby jumped slightly. Dean leaned in the window. “Angsty weep-fest? Not really your style, Bobby.”

“Get outta here.” Bobby grumbled, wiping his face on his arm.

“Dude, everyone’s tellin’ me to stick around. _Now_ you want me gone?” Dean climbed into the front seat and slammed the door behind him. “So.”

“Hardest thing’a my life.” Bobby said quietly. “Seein’ him like that.”

Dean rested his arm on the rolled down window. “Yeah.”

“You wanna tell me what _you_ got stuck up in your ass?” Bobby demanded. When Dean looked at him narrowly, Bobby rolled his eyes. “Not tellin’ Sam your _name_? What good’s _that_ gonna do?”

“I want Cass to look at him before we start piling all this stuff on, Bobby.”

“All this _what_?”

“Everything!” Dean snapped. “Him. Us. Y’know, the life we lead, on the friggin’ road, in the friggin’ car all the time. The _monsters_. Kind of a lot for a guy to process through, and I don’t wanna shock him back into that Matrix mind-trip or whatever the hell it was he just came out of.”

“How long you think you can hide that from him, Dean?”

“As long as it takes.” Dean said firmly. “You gotta back me up on this one, Bobby. Keep everything under wraps until we know _exactly_ what’s goin’ on in that big scruffy head’a his. Okay?” Bobby clenched his jaw and looked out the window, and Dean shifted to face him. “Bobby.”

“All right, you knucklehead, what if it was the other way around?”

“’S’cuse me?”

“If you were the one who got his brain black-listed. You think Sam would keep you in the dark?”

“Oh, don’t pull that ‘do unto others’ crap on me, Bobby. This is _Sam_ we’re talkin’ about. Triple-tour-in-Hell, _Sam_. The less he’s got in his head right now, the better.” Dean slung an arm across the back of the seat. “Tell me you got my back on this, Bobby.”

Bobby heaved a world-class sigh. “You know I do, Dean.”

“Great.” Dean slid out of the front seat. “You comin’?”

“In a minute.”

Dean sucked down the witty reply that jumped onto the tip of his tongue. Bobby didn’t look like he was in the mood for any crap.

The inside of Bobby’s house was pretty warm after the frigid South Dakota air outside. Sam was sprawled back on the couch, fist against his forehead, eyes squeezed shut. Same look he got every time he used to have a psychic vision or a headache when the wall started cracking.

Dean hurried over to join him. “Sam.” He leaned over, gripped his shoulder. “Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah.” Sam blinked, eyes rolling into focus. “Just tired.”

He looked worse than tired. Pale and sweating again. And shaking.

“You look like crap.” Dean rubbed Sam’s arm to warm him up, stopped when he felt Sam’s icy skin. “Dude. You’re like Jack Frost.”

“Sorta feel like I’ve got the flu or something.”

“Hang on a second.” Dean headed for the coat closet beside Bobby’s front door—the one Bobby only cleaned out after zombie attacks. Wasn’t hard to hunt up one of Sam’s old hoodies, they’d left it in there—God, years ago? When they’d stayed with Bobby for a couple weeks right after their dad had died.

Dean stripped it off and brought it back to Sam, watching his brother wriggle into the thing. Wouldn’t have fit on him a few weeks ago. Now it was hanging off his shoulders. Dean could’ve probably beat him down in two seconds in a fistfight with the state he was in right now.

“Thanks.” Sam crossed his arms and sank back into the couch cushions. “So, uh. I’m missing six years.” He smiled slightly. “Think you can catch me up?”

Dean grinned, flopping down on the couch beside Sam. This, he could handle.

“All right, so a couple years ago, Red Sox win the world series…”

 


	4. Chapter 4

_March 5 th, 2012_

_Singer Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, South Dakota._

“So they executed Hussein?”

            “Yup.”

            “Huh.” Sam sat back, soaking that in. “And gas is five bucks a gallon?”

            “Dude. It’s the end of the world.”

            Sam laughed.

            They’d been sitting on the couch for hours, Sam steadily adding layers of blankets and pillows on as the chills racked his body. Catching up on years of history that were totally blank to Sam. Like hearing a story you knew wasn’t real. Nothing set off a mind explosion of memories. He still had a gaping void in his entire life except for four amazing years at Stanford, and those were crystal clear. Like the memory of Jess’s arm around him when he’d woken up, heard something clattering in the apartment.

            Whatever that was, he had a feeling it was the thing Bobby and this guy were looking for. Whatever had beaten Sam and left him for dead.

            He scratched at his arm through the rumbled hoodie. “So, listen, I’ve been thinking…” He looked up, waiting for a prompt. For this guy to tell him his name. Finally.

            He got a goofy grin in response. “McQueen.”

            “Oh, come on!” Sam said incredulously. “Steve McQueen? Gimmie a break! Your name is _not_ Steve McQueen!”

            “Prove me wrong.”

            Sam shook his head. “You’re such a—”

            “Don’t say it, bitch.”

            Sam blinked at him. “Don’t call me a bitch!”

            “Don’t call me a jerk!”

            “I wasn’t going to call you a jerk, I was going to call you a _loser_.”

            The guy—McQueen, Sam guessed, he wasn’t going to get a better answer than that—licked his lips and smiled again. Forced, this time. “So? What’s goin’ on your crazy head?”

            “You and that guy, Bobby. You’re trying to help me, right?”

            McQueen dropped his gaze. “We’re workin’ on it.”

            “I think I might have some kind of lead for you.” Sam admitted.

            McQueen perked up. “Okay, hit me.”

            “Last night,” Sam started, then broke off. Tried to get his thoughts in order. Why was it so hard to line everything up in his head? “I mean, six years ago. The last thing I remember, there was this thing, in my apartment.”

            “A thing.” McQueen echoed flatly.

            “A burglar. Maybe. I heard something thumping around and after that,” He shrugged.

            “Memory-loss starts.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Huh.” McQueen’s gaze slid sideways. “Well, Bobby and I can look into that.”

            Sam looked at him, trying to figure this guy out. Trying to get a read on him. “You already know it wasn’t that. Don’t you?”

            McQueen flicked a look toward him, then stared at the wall. “I’ve seen you a couple times since Stanford.”

            “So I wasn’t gone all six years?” Sam said, startled.

            McQueen took a deep breath. “Seven weeks.” He rubbed his hands together. “I saw you over New Year’s. You took off, and we, uh…haven’t talked since.”

            Something about his tone tipped Sam off. Something wasn’t right, he could feel it, right under his skin. “That’s not normal, is it?”

            McQueen opened his mouth to answer, snapped it shut, smiled. “You figure out what normal is, man, drop me a line.” He stood up and stretched. “All right, enough Q and A. You gotta be runnin’ on fumes.”

            Sam shivered, hunching back into the pillows. “That’s being optimistic.”

            “C’mon, time to put you to bed.”

            “You know I’m not an invalid, right?” Sam pushed up onto his feet, putting a hand on the arm of the couch to steady himself. The room tipped under his feet and his breath flared cold into his nose and down the back of his throat. “I can handle it.”

            “Yeah, sure thing, tough guy.” McQueen grabbed Sam’s arm and pulled it across his shoulders. “Tell me how that’s workin’ for ya in a few minutes.”

            Sam would’ve argued, except he couldn’t exactly see straight and with the blankets off he was shivering again. He let McQueen guide him to the door and down into the basement, thumping slowly down the stairs, around the corner and toward the huge iron door that was still halfway open.

            Ten feet away, it hit Sam like a hurricane right against his face. Knowing what was on the other side of that door. Blood and pain. Worse pain than anything he’d ever felt before in his life. Like sludge in his veins. Bracelets of steel around his wrists and a gag in his mouth. Like dying with a knife in his back. The worst thing in the world.

            His knees gave out, staggering him. Only the arm around his waist kept him from going straight down flat-faced on the concrete.

            “Whoa, whoa! Sam!” McQueen swung around, braced his chest, lowered him to the floor. “Easy, easy. Easy! What happened?”

            Jaw slack, breathing hard through his mouth, Sam stared at the door. “Don’t put me back in there.”

            “What?”

            “Don’t.” Sam grabbed the front of McQueen’s shirt. “Don’t put me back in there. I swear, I’m fine. It’s under control. You don’t have to tie me down, I swear!”

            “Sam.” McQueen said slowly. “No one’s tying anyone down, okay?”

            “Just…please.” Sam’s gaze flicked unwillingly to the door, to the gritty orange light pouring out. He could feel the handcuffs biting into his wrists. “Please.”

            “Hey, you got it. I’m just your escort to the prom, here.” McQueen grabbed his elbow, dragging Sam to his feet before he could fight. “How ’bout we let ya crash on the couch, huh?”

            Sam was sweating so badly he felt like he’d been standing out in the rain, and the knot in his chest wouldn’t loosen. It was harder to get back upstairs, leaning heavy on McQueen, and by the time they got to the study Sam was staggering like a drunk. McQueen swung him around and half-dropped him back into the cozy sanctuary of blankets and pillows and Sam buried himself underneath, shivering violently.

            “What’re you, four?” McQueen grumbled, vanishing back down the hall. He reappeared with an armful of blankets and a couple more pillows, slinging a stack onto the floor and tossing the rest to Sam. “Bobby’s conked out upstairs. Swear, the man doesn’t sleep unless someone tapes his eyes shut.”

            Sam tucked his head against a pillow and squeezed his eyes closed. Listened to McQueen moving around, clicking off lights, shutting the blinds. The darkness on the other side of his eyelids was a profound relief for Sam. It chased away the glaring light that reminded him of downstairs.

            “So,” McQueen said from the floor somewhere in front of Sam. “You wanna tell me what happened back there?”

            Sam’s mouth jerked to one side. “I’m not sure. I just…I couldn’t go in that room, man. It gave me a bad feeling. Like I’d never come back out again.”

            “Fair enough.” McQueen thumped onto his back on the floor with a sigh. “Dude, this is friggin’ uncomfortable.”

            Sam rolled onto his back, one arm across his torso, the other tucked behind his head. Watching the striations of shadows rippling in the cold silver light on the ceiling. Trying to grab on to the weird, shivery feeling that something about that room downstairs was important.

            “Have I ever been in that room before?” He asked cautiously.

            “What, you mean before Bobby hooked up to that IV?” McQueen asked, and Sam nodded. “No. Never. Bobby keeps the place under wraps. Why?”

            “I dunno.” Sam frowned. “I keep getting this feeling. Like I _know_ things. But I keep mixing up what’s real and what’s not.”

            “Well, hey. You can always ask.”

            “Fair enough.” Sam parroted. He leaned his head back further on his arm, closing his eyes. “My whole family is dead. Is that real?”

            It took a minute for McQueen to answer. “Yeah. I think so.”

            “When did they die?”

            “Your mom died when you were a kid. Your dad died after you left Stanford.”

            “How do you know so much about me?”

            “Ah, word gets around. You know how it is.”

            “Somebody handcuffed me in a room like the one downstairs. Was that real?”

            McQueen pulled himself up onto one elbow. “Could be. Could be you getting a flash on whatever happened before you were here.” He laid down on his back, arms crossed. “Get some sleep, Sam.”

            “All right.” Sam tucked his chin to his chest. “Did I deserve it?”

            “Getting handcuffed?” Sam nodded. “I dunno.” A beat. “Sam. Go to sleep.”

            Sam looked over at McQueen. “Jessica’s dead. Real or not?”

McQueen swallowed hard. “God, I’d give anything to tell you otherwise, Sam. But yeah, Jessica’s gone. She died. House fire a few years back. You tried your hardest, but she, uh…she burned up.”

Sam’s eyes glazed over with something hot and powerful that he couldn’t control. His jaw locked and he nodded vigorously, looking away. “Yeah, I figured.” His voice, husky and low. Barely holding it together. “I just had this feeling, y’know?”

A few minutes crawled past. And Sam realized that, initial shock aside, there was just a hollowness in his chest. Like he’d done all of his grieving a long time ago. Like he’d already laid Jessica to rest, and it was done. Done, somewhere deep inside of him that he couldn’t quite get a hold on.

There was an infiltration of a silence for a few minutes. Then McQueen cleared his throat. “Listen, uh, I’ve got this friend comin’ over tomorrow. He’s a little on the crazy side, but he might be able to help you get your memories back.”

“Great.” Sam said quietly.

And it was. Maybe. Not that he liked having only four years of his life in tact, and the rest being a huge void. But being downstairs, seeing that panic room—he’d felt like he was going to have a heart attack. Like going back in there would kill him. What if getting all of his memories back felt the same?”

Then again. Whoever had hurt him could still be out there. Still looking for him. And Sam had a deep pit of uneasiness in his stomach. Something was wrong. Really wrong. About being here, about being _alive_ , and it wasn’t just the things he remembered. It was buried inside of what he’d _forgotten_. Something important.

He rolled onto his side, pillowing his head on his arm, eyes narrowed and darting, trying to grab onto a corner of what might be left of his memories, and unwind the whole thing into a reality he could believe in.

Silence filtered back in. Then McQueen started humming under his breath. Throwing in a couple lyrics. He sounded vague and unaffected and Sam didn’t recognize the song. But for some reason it made him smile anyway.

“Dude. Has anyone ever told you that you can’t sing?”

McQueen broke off and Sam could _feel_ his glare. “I said shut up and go to sleep, Sam.”

Maybe because he was so worn out from a long day.

That was easy to do.

Dreaming.

 _That_ was the hard part.

Sam chased something through his dreams that he couldn’t qualify, that didn’t make sense. Something phantom; maybe a memory. The heat of his hands around someone’s throat. Writing on a wall. He woke up over and over again with this feeling like there was tangible rubble floating around his head, like a building had been decimated inside his skull.

McQueen, sacked out on the floor, never woke up once. Not while Sam was thrashing and writhing around in his mound of blankets, choking awake every few hours. It was after sunrise when Sam finally slipped into an exhausted, dreamless sleep, and didn’t climb his way out of that until late in the afternoon.

He could tell how late it was, just by the way the sunlight slanted through the window behind his head. Probably around three, maybe four in the afternoon. Sam sat up slowly, mouth feeling skuzzy, head muffled like he’d stuffed cotton into his ears. No McQueen and no Bobby in the room.

Sam sat up straighter. “Hullo?”

He heard a clatter, something crashing deeper in the house. Wary, he swung his legs off the couch, got unsteadily to his feet and headed for the hallway; ended up face-to-side with a flight of stairs. Sam headed to the bottom step and stopped, staring up at the murky dark at the top.

It gave him that same gut-wrenching feeling of uneasiness that he’d gotten outside the panic room. Sam closed his hand around the banister, fingers flexing spasmodically. With this weird idea that something was calling him up there. Reaching out for him. Trying to drag him in.

“Sam?” A hand grabbed his shoulder.

Sam sucked in a sharp breath, wrenching around, and McQueen backed off with both hands up.

“Whoa-ho-ho, easy, tiger.”

“What’s up there?” Sam demanded.

“Bobby’s room. Sam, you okay? You look like you, uh…saw a ghost or something.” McQueen said hesitantly.

Sam looked back up the stairs, frowning. “Or something.”

McQueen clapped him in the back. “Gave my friend a call, he’s gonna be over soon. You hungry?”

Sam wasn’t used to being fed; not for lack of nourishment in general, but because he’d been pretty independent at Stanford, taken care of himself. So sitting at the kitchen table feeling dizzy while someone else grabbed him more soup felt a lot like being a helpless little kid. Which was something he was trying to avoid, at this point.

“Where’s Bobby?” He asked as McQueen dropped the bowl of soup onto the table in front of him.

“In town. Talkin’ to the sheriff.” McQueen said. Sam snapped a glance his way as he grabbed a beer out of the fridge, kicking it shut behind him. “Relax, Hilts. It’s not about you. Bobby and Mills go way back.”

“Hilts.” Sam echoed, eyebrows up.

“Eat your damn soup, Sam.”

Sam obeyed, McQueen leaning against the counter drinking his beer and staring into space. Zoning out. Neither one of them talking until someone knocked on the front door. McQueen raised his bottle, took a drink and banged it down on the counter.

“Be right back.”

Sam stared into the dredges of his bowl, listening in; heard mutters coming from the entryway, his name in there somewhere, making his hair stand on end. Then he heard footsteps, twisting around in his seat when McQueen walked back in. There was a guy behind him, short, scruffy dark hair, suit with a tie, trenchcoat. Sam cocked his head, face scrunched in confusion, feeling an instant but brief bolt of familiarity.

“Sam, this is Cass.” McQueen said, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “Cass, this is Sam. Memory-Loss-Guy.”

“Hey. Nice to meet you.” Sam held out his hand and Cass, after a few seconds, shook it, his expression full of this kind of sadness Sam felt like he could relate to.

“The pleasure is mine, Sam.” Cass said, clapping Sam briefly on the forearm. There was a staticky feeling in this guy’s fingertips that made Sam feel like he was standing on the edge of something dangerous. He quickly pulled his hand away and Cass flexed his fingers awkwardly, dropping his arm back to his side. “Your b—” McQueen cleared his throat and Cass and Sam both looked at him. There was a tense pause before Cass continued: “Your benefactor wanted me to have a look at you.”

Sam shoved back from the table, rubbing his palms on his knees. “Not sure how much you can do, but, uh, you’re welcome to give it a shot.”

“Thank you.” Cass circled the chair, looking Sam over like he was an insect under a microscope. He kept tilting his head back and forth, a curious cat with a cornered piece of prey it wasn’t sure it could eat.

He finally stopped, facing Sam again. “I’m not sure how much you’ve been told. But I have special abilities. The kind that could unlock your mind and which will hopefully uncover the cause behind your memory loss.”

“Abilities.” Sam scoffed.

“Hypnosis.” McQueen butted in, lurching away from the wall. “He can put you in a trance, Sam. Might help us figure out what’s wrong with you.”

Sam felt himself bristle at the suggestion that there was something _wrong_ with him, but it faded just as fast as it came on, and he shrugged. “All right. If you think it’ll work. What do you need me to do?”

“Nothing.” Cass stepped closer. “Hold very still.” He placed two fingers between Sam’s eyes. “Let your mind go blank. And brace yourself. This will be like nothing you’ve ever felt before.”

And it wasn’t. The minute Sam closed his eyes, let go of every harried, tail-chasing thought whirling through his mind, something bright blue and brilliant exploded behind his eyes. Damn near electric, it raced down his throat and poured into his limbs. It lasted for five, ten, fifteen seconds before he realized he was falling.

Hands caught his shoulders, heaving him back, sitting him up in the chair. Gasping, Sam gripped the arms of the chair hard, hair flopping forward into his eyes. “What—what the hell?”

“Hypnosis affects everyone differently.” Cass’s gravelly voice reached him first. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you pain.”

It wasn’t pain, not exactly. More like he’d bitten something cold with his molars or dripped ice down his shirt. It was cold, it was fire, and it was finally starting to fade out of his limbs.

“Still with us, Sammy?” McQueen asked; it was his hands keeping Sam from slumping out of the chair again.

“Don’t…call me that.” Sam said raggedly.

“Sorry.” A hand grabbed his hair, shoving it back, tilting his head until he met McQueen’s eyes. “Still didn’t answer the question, Sundance.”

“I’m not…Sundance. You’re Sundance.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m fine.”

“Atta boy.”

“McQueen.” Cass said, the name sounding weird coming from him. “I need to have a word with you. Alone.”

“Hang in there, Butch Cassidy.” McQueen hit Sam lightly on the cheek, then hunched up onto his feet and followed Cass out.

Sam finally sat up on his own, rubbing his burning, white-fire eyes. He didn’t know much about hypnosis—maybe Jessica had taught him something about it, once. But he had a feeling it wasn’t supposed to be like that.

And he wondered what was so secret that Cass couldn’t say it in front of him.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

_March 6 th, 2012_

_Singer Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, South Dakota_

“Sam’s wall is gone, Dean.”

They stopped right outside the front door, Castiel turning on the gravel path so his shoulder was toward Dean, staring out into the wide swathe of broken-down, scrap-metal cars. Dean stopped just short of running into him, eyebrows rising.

“Gone. Gone as in, shore-leave, gone?”

“Gone as in utterly decimated.” Castiel looked at him with stricken eyes. “There’s nothing left of it that I could see. It’s unclear to me at this point whether Sam did it himself or whether it was carried out by some outside force.”

“Okay.” Dean took that one in, tried to mold his brain around it. “So why isn’t he a drooling vegetable right now? Death said—”

“The human mind is a fortress, Dean.” Castiel cut him off. “There’s nothing to rival its intricacies in all of my Father’s creation. It’s a myriad of passageways. Rooms. Doors to other places.”

“Cass, you’re losing me.”

Castiel dragged in a frustrated breath. “Sam’s mind has retreated into itself. Slammed all doors and barred all the painful memories. When the Wall came down,” He shook his head, looking out toward the cars again. “It must have traumatized him beyond belief. His mind’s only defense was to eliminate the threat: itself.”

“So he erased his own memories.”

“It was the only way, I assume, for him to keep from going insane.”

“So they’re gone. His mind’s _gone_.”

“Not gone.” Castiel sighed. “The memories are…buried. Locked behind walls and walls of mental defense. With time and careful practice, they could, conceivably, be broken through. His memories could be reached.”

“Well, great. Cass, how do we get ’em _back_?” Dean demanded. “I want details.”

“I’m not sure…” Castiel trailed off, lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Dean.”

“Not such a—you _saw_ him, Cass. He doesn’t remember me, he doesn’t remember _Bobby_. Hell, his instincts are shot! We can’t just leave him like this, he can’t protect himself. He’s not even a hunter!”

“I don’t think you understand what Sam has suffered through.” Castiel said sharply, turning to face Dean full-on. “His wall, _collapsed_ , Dean. Everything we feared came to pass, and he suffered through it. _Alone_.”

Dean chomped down on his tongue and looked away.

“His soul was pulverized, Dean. It’s infant and bloody and there is nothing we can do to preserve it. That is what seeing his past has done to him.” Castiel stepped closer, shoving right up in Dean’s face. “And you want to put him through it, all of it, again. Force him to relive those memories over and over. Do you understand what that will do to him, Dean? It could, literally, _kill him_.”

Dean scoffed, softly, keeping his eyes averted. “Death said the same thing about the wall.”

“And here we stand.”

Dean swiped his tongue across his lips. “You’re asking me to leave him like this. _Helpless_ , Cass.”

“Isn’t that what you always wanted for him, Dean? To be ignorant of the dangers of the world? To protect him from fear?” Castiel said. “This is the greatest opportunity Sam has for a normal life.”

“But I gotta let him go.”

“Love involves sacrifice.”

“Shut up, I don’t—” Dean dragged a hand down his face and looked at Castiel sideways, then raked that same hand back through his hair. “He’ll die, Cass. If we can’t fix this, then whatever grabbed him, it could come for him again.”

“I can’t guarantee his safety, Dean. But would it truly be better for him to remember what he was, all of the mistakes he’s made? Or to begin a new life, as far from hunting as he could possibly be?”

Dean wanted to spit back that, yeah, it would be better. Sam was a hunter, always had been, always would be.

Except maybe that wasn’t true. Sam had never wanted this life, Dean and John had never wanted it _for_ him. Sam had bailed on his family for Stanford and John had let him go. And Dean had let him go. Now Sam had what he’d always wanted—his innocence back. The thing Dean had been reluctant to grab back, the reason, maybe, that he’d kept the truth about Sam’s family hidden since his brother had first woken up in that panic room.

Sam was lost to Dean right now, to Bobby, to all of them. And maybe Sam didn’t want to be found.

“Where’s he supposed to go?” Dean asked. “He’s already remembering stuff. He knows about the panic room. And about Jessica’s death.”

“I can prepare a place for him. Somewhere far from demonic breeding grounds and spiritual haunts. A place of safety.”

“Do it.” Dean said. “Tattoo that sucker floor to ceiling, Cass. I’m talking Enochian sigils, Solomon Keys, Devil’s Traps, any damn thing you can think of to stop monsters from getting inside.”

Castiel nodded. “The sooner he’s removed from this situation, the easier it will be for all of us. And the more likely he’ll be to remain unscarred.”

“Cass.” Dean added before the angel could phase out.

“Yes, Dean?”

“Don’t tell me where you’re sending Sam.”

Castiel cocked his head to one side. “In the event that something were to happen and the wards failed, Dean, if you didn’t know where Sam was—”

Dean rubbed the side of his neck. “That’s my point, Cass. Bad guys can’t find Sam, they won’t be able to use him against me.”

Castiel stared at him for a minute, then glanced away. “I understand.” He looked back at Dean. “I’ll return in twelve hours with directions for Sam.”

“Thanks.” Dean said; Castiel disappeared in a whip of his trenchcoat and Dean was alone. Alone with the crushing, painful weight of knowing he was _letting_ Sam slip out of his hands, for good this time.

Dean spun around and punched the wall, hard, muscles like knots under his jaw, all down his neck and into his shoulders. Dean punched the wall until he couldn’t feel anything in his hand anymore, and then he tipped his forehead against it and breathed hard.

Should’ve been there. Should’ve protected Sam from whatever had attacked him, broken down the wall. Should’ve stopped him from going to Memphis alone in the first place. But it wasn’t like he could go back and change it, they were here, this was it. Letting Sam go or letting him tear into his own mind and kill himself.

Dean didn’t even hesitate.

“Sam?” He called, heading back into the house, massaging his knuckles. They were starting to throb. “I gotta talk to you.”

Sam was still sitting in the chair, sweat-stiff hair plastered to his forehead, making him look like the person Dean had picked up from Stanford. Sam looked up, startled, like he was coming up outta some deep spacey thought.

“What’s up?” His gaze fell on Dean’s hand and he lurched to his feet. “Oh, hey! What happened?”

Dean glanced down at the shredded, pulpy skin over his knuckles. Huh. Hadn’t even realized he’d been hitting the side of the house that hard. “Got a lotta steam to let off, I guess.” He said with a dry, breathless laugh.

“That’s a lot of blood.” Sam grabbed a towel off of the counter and handed it to Dean. “You should wrap that up.”

Dean stared at him, searching those huge sad puppy eyes. It was like Sammy was right under the surface, trying to claw his way out. Trying to see daylight.

“Dude.” Dean said softly. “Why do you care so much?”

Sam frowned. “Why shouldn’t I?”

Maybe because the wall was gone; Sam’s memories of Hell had already flooded in, taken over. Almost killed him. And if Castiel was right, they were still there, lurking out of sight. Knowing all that, Dean was looking at him differently. Thinking Sam was walking a pretty tight wire and if he wasn’t careful he was gonna fall in so deep, so fast, that no one—not Castiel, not Dean, not God himself—could pull him back out.

“So.” Sam sank back down into the chair. “What did you wanna ask me?”

Dean perched on the edge of the table. “That whole, psycho-hypnosis crap unlock anything up there?”

Sam’s mouth twisted in a frown. “No. At least…nothing really concrete, y’know? More like this…” He trailed off.

“This _what_?” Dean asked.

“Nothing.” Sam met his eyes. “Sorry. I wish I could help.”

Dean felt like he had a rock stuck in his throat. “Ah, don’t worry about it.” He peeled the towel back to check on his raw, bloody knuckles. Kept his eyes down. “Sam. Cass is looking for a safe-house.”

“A safe-house?” Sam echoed. “For what?”

“For you, genius. Some place you can live on your own, start over.”

“What? No!” Sam protested.

Dean’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

“No! I’m not just gonna go and try to start a new life. I need to find out what happened, I need to help you catch whoever did this to me!”

“That is _not_ your job, Sam.”

“What, and it’s _yours_?” Sam demanded. “No offense, but I don’t even _know_ you. This is my fight, it’s my life!”

“Don’t say that to me.” Dean growled. “Last time I let you get away with that—” He broke off, looked at the door. Felt like he wanted to bolt, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t run out on his brother. He forced himself to hold Sam’s overwhelmed, bright eyes. “Sam. Cass thinks your mind shut itself off for protection. To keep you from _dying_.”

Sam stiffened up. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s in your head! Sam. Whatever’s inside of you, your brain blocked it, buried it! So it couldn’t hurt you. Remembering what happened, who hurt you—you could go totally schizo. Or you could drop _dead_. Either way, you pick up the short end of the stick I can’t let that happen again.”

“What do you mean, _again_?” Sam was looking at him with something that made Dean’s hackles go up— _suspicion._ “Has this happened to me before?”

“No.” That much, at least, Dean could say without lying.

Sam took a few deep breaths. “So, I could die. I get it. And it scares me. Man, it scares the _hell_ out of me. I don’t wanna die.” He leaned forward in his chair. “But I can’t just run _away_ from this.”

“Yeah, Sam, you _can_.” Dean snapped. “You turn around, you walk away from all of this crap before it’s too late!”

“It might already _be_ too late!”

Dean went still. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sam’s jaw shifted, but he didn’t drop his gaze. Pulled a perfect bitchface, so for one second, it felt like—“I am missing…twenty-four _years_ of my life. I don’t remember my parents. I don’t remember you or Bobby or that…Cass guy. How am I supposed to live with that?”

“By staying alive!”

They glared at each other, a corrosive anger swimming in the air between them. Just like old times. Except everything was broken.

Sam crossed his arms on his knees. “I’m not going _anywhere_.”

“Sam, c’mon!” Dean leaned back, face twisted with fury. “This is your life we’re playing games with, here, all right?”

“Yeah! And there could be _dozens_ more at stake. _We don’t know_. And until we do, I’m not gonna just take myself out of the ring and go into hiding! So unless you can give me solid proof that you’ve got some kind of lead,” Sam spread his hands in a There-You-Go gesture. “You’re stuck with me.”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, then dropped his wrist onto his knee, bowed his head. “Dammit, Sam.”

Sam’s expression shifted, from something stone-solid and stubborn to warm and soupy. Oh, great. “Look. I know you’re trying to help me. But you and Bobby are just a couple of guys. You can’t do this alone. You _need_ whatever’s locked inside my head.”

“Man, if findin’ this son of a bitch means we gotta crack open your skull,” Dean said shallowly, looking up at Sam, jaw tight. “Then I hope we never find him.”

Sam’s head cocked slightly to one side. “You don’t mean that.”

“Look me in my eyes and tell me I’m kidding.”

The glaring started up again, but as fast as the fight flushed up inside of Dean, it started draining away. Yeah. Sure. Sam was being a stubborn bitch, like always. But Dean wasn’t planning on budging, not this time. Which meant, one way or another, he was going to lose Sam. What was left of him.

Like a punch to the side of his head knocking him spinning, Dean realized what his dad must’ve felt, right before he’d died. Knowing what was coming, being the only one who did. And not wanting to waste the time he had left fighting about stupid things that wouldn’t matter in five, ten minutes. An hour. A year.

“Can we just stop?” Dean asked huskily.

Sam looked away.

The front door banged open, Bobby barging in unannounced—made sense, since it was his house. Dean hopped off the edge of the table and Sam got up beside him.

“Find anything?” Sam asked.

Bobby stopped, looking between the two of them. “Find anything about what?”

Sam’s forehead scrunched. “Uh. Sorry. Just kind of…” He shook his head, mouth biting down in a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”

Sam’s default question for Bobby; always, _find anything?_ One step closer to unburying those memories. One huge leap toward the edge.

“Cass dropped by.” Dean said, giving Bobby a hard, straight-edged look. Bobby picked up on it—thank God.

“And?” He prompted.

“Hypnosis didn’t turn up anything. Sam’s memories are still having the lock-in of the friggin’ century.”

“And now _he_ thinks I should keep it that way.” Sam said, tilting his head at Dean.

“Yeah, sure, make it sound like _I’m_ the bad guy.” Dean muttered.

 “Let me give you a hand,” Sam offered to Bobby, ignoring Dean and brushing past him.

“Doesn’t really matter what Cass wants.” Bobby said, ending the discussion right there. He walked over and popped Dean lightly on the back of the head, then crooked a finger at him. “You and I need to have a little chat.”

“Oh, boy, I’m in trouble.” Dean said uneasily, shooting Sam a Help-Me-Out-Of-This look. But Sam minus his memories wouldn’t remember how many times getting called out for a private talk with Bobby had meant getting your ass reamed. Or, when you were a kid, getting smacked with a wooden spoon.

Bobby led Dean into the next room over, rounded on him and handed him a piece of yellow legal paper with a bunch of chicken-scratch scrawlings on it. For half a second, Dean thought it was something Bobby had pulled from John’s journal.

“Okay, what the hell’s this?” He asked.

“New leads.” Bobby said tightly. “Maybe.” He glanced through to the kitchen, where Sam was restocking the shelves. The corners of Bobby’s eyes went flat, taut. Angry and desperate. “I think I know what took Sam and beat him to death. Didn’t see it before ’cause we were lookin’ in the wrong place.”

“Just spit it out, would ya?”

“Boy, it don’t make a lick’a sense, but I’d bet my boots it was demons.” Bobby said. “And they tortured the hell out of him.”

Dean shifted, leaning back against the wall. “Demons. Bobby, what would _demons_ want with Sam? He’s not their Antichrist Superstar anymore. There’s nothing inside his head they need to get at!”

“I know.” Bobby said, round-eyed. “Believe me, Dean, _I know_. This is just the facts—well. The facts that I wrote down on a piece of paper on the way home. Gonna take a lot more digging than that to put some kinda case together.”

“All right, so, we eat, we kick Sam out, we start diggin’?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Awesome.” Dean clapped Bobby briefly on the shoulder as Bobby walked past him, heading for the kitchen. Dean leaned against the doorpost, watching Bobby grab his apron, Sam backing out of his way to let the king of the kitchen take over.

And maybe this was what Dean had been missing, even when he was with Lisa and Ben. Because family wasn’t family unless it was Sam; unless it was Bobby. Castiel, too, lately. Dean had a hundred pieces in his life, but those were the three that fit the cleanest. And right now he had it, maybe for the last time.

Dammit. Life should’ve come with a freeze-frame.

“You gonna stand around jawin’ at me, or are you gonna help out?” Bobby called without turning around.

Dean scrubbed a hand back through his hair and went to join him, wishing time was rewinding back to New Year’s Eve so he could stop everything from spinning out of control.

 

 

Sam barely made it through dinner.

            Halfway through, his eyelids started drooping. The only thing stronger than his drive for sleep was his drive for food, as far as Dean could tell, because the minute he had that last bite crammed into his overflowing mouth, he excused himself and disappeared. Dean found him five minutes later, conked out at the bottom of the stairs in the basement—which was weird, but it was also Sam, so weird came with the package deal.

            Dean stood on the bottom step for a couple seconds wondering if he should move Sam; then again. Trying to drag _Sam_ up a staircase was pretty daunting. He looked comfy on that cold concrete floor, anyway.

            Dean crouched, slung his jacket off and over his brother’s shoulders, shoved up onto his feet and headed upstairs to find Bobby.

            The study still smelled like food when Dean walked in; one light on, on the desk, and Bobby with all of his books and maps spread out on there and on the floor.

            “All right, what’ve we got?” Dean asked, Bobby looked up at him.

            “Some TV news report down at the station pegged outta-season storms up a corridor of Interstate Sixty-Three right outside’a Marked Tree. In Arkansas.” Bobby said, pointing to one of the maps unrolled across the floor. “I’m thinkin’ we were looking in the wrong place, Dean.”

            “For the omens?”

            Bobby nodded. “Marked Tree’s only forty-five minutes from Memphis. The demons could’ve been lying low and sent one of their people in to grab Sam. Lower level demons don’t bring on omens by themselves. You gotta get up in the ranks—like, Azazel ranks—before you get to the nasty sons of bitches who can drag that crap out on their own.” Bobby agreed.

            “Wait a second. So you’re saying some low class demon got the jump on Sam, dragged him _back_ to Marked Tree, tore his ass seven ways from Sunday and then let him loose?” Dean demanded. “This is _Sam_ , Bobby, we’ve been huntin’ demons together for six years. How’d the damn thing even get close to him?”

            “Maybe he was off his game.” Bobby suggested. “It don’t really matter, kid. This is too close to Memphis to just be a coincidence.”

            Something about it bit down and started gnawing on Dean; something wasn’t right, it didn’t fit. Sam could gank pretty much any demon with his eyes closed. He had the knife, he had the exorcism memorized. So why’d he all of a sudden go limp?

            A nagging thought kept eating through: that maybe Sam’s wall had already been breaking down, so yeah, he’d be off his game.

            It hit him, right then: the stupid voicemail. That voicemail he’d gotten that’d just been a lotta static, cut off right at the end. It could’ve been Sam. It could’ve been Sam calling for help.

            “Oh, son of a bitch.” Dean sat at Bobby’s desk, cradling his head in his hands.

            “Dean—” Bobby started.

            “All right, all right!” Dean growled, picking his head up again. “We got demons in Arco, we got demons in Marked Tree. Rufus can’t cover ’em both.” He held his hands palm-up in a gesture of resignation. “Guess it’s gotta be me, then.”

            “Thought you were stickin’ around!” Bobby snapped.

            “Yeah, well, duty calls.” Dean said with one strained chuckle.

            “Aw, bullcrap.” Bobby said sharply. “What aren’t you tellin’ me? Dean!”

            “It’s nothin’, Bobby.” Dean said, averting his eyes. Like hell he was gonna tell Bobby, he’d want Sam back, no matter what. Dig through the walls, get to the memories. Bobby believed in Sam, he’d believe he could be okay. And maybe Dean did, too. He just wasn’t gonna take that chance.

            Not this time.

            “Well, if you’re all done being _bipolar_.” Bobby said. “I already gave Rufus a call. Arco’s gone dead quiet, ’least for now. I asked him check out Marked Tree. Hate to have him runnin’ all over hell to track these things, but it’s ain’t like we’re rollin’ rich in options, here.”

            “You know if somethin’ happens out in Arco, one of us is gonna have to deal with it.” Dean said flatly.

            “We’ll cross that bridge _if_ we get to it.” Bobby said firmly. “Meantime, Dean, there’s someone I want you to call.”

            “Yeah?” Dean looked up. “Who’s that?”

            “Old friend of your daddy’s. Missouri.”

            “Oh, God. Please. Not her.” Dean protested.

            “What? Gal’s a spitfire, sure, but she’s got her talents like the rest of us.”

            “Dude, Sam and I met her when we went to Lawrence a few years back. The lady’s got it in for me!”

            “Oh, sack up, princess.” Bobby said. “I know for a fact Cass wasn’t doin’ any kind of _hypnosis_ on Sam. He was pokin’ around Sam’s wall, right? And if that miserable-ass face of yours is tellin’ me _anything_ , that wall’s nothin’ but a pile’a scrap parts now.”

            “Exactly. So what good do you think some palm-reader’s gonna do?”

            “That ain’t all Missouri’s good at, boy.” Bobby said. “Your dad came to me right after he met with her. Told me everything she’d told him. That woman’s got a read on things I hadn’t even heard of. She might be able to help Sam.”

            Dean shook his head. “I’m not goin’ to see her, Bobby. And neither is Sam.”

            “Don’t be a stubborn-ass, Dean. If we’re gonna get Sam’s memory back—”

Dean cleared his throat, cutting Bobby off. “Yeah, I was thinkin’ about that.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped. “Y’know, maybe we’re tryin’ too hard.”

            “You don’t mean that.”

            “I don’t?” Dean looked at him shrewdly and Bobby glared back.

            “He’s your _brother_ , Dean.”

            “He doesn’t remember that.” Dean shrugged.  “Frankly, I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing, Bobby.”

            “How in the _hell_ is it _good_? For either of you?”

            “You think I want him to remember all the crap we did to each other? Demon blood? The friggin’ Apocalypse? All the times we _lied_ to each other and stabbed each other in the back?” Dean snapped. “Trust me, he’s better off forgettin’ the whole damn thing.”

            Bobby stayed quiet for a minute. “Dean. What did Cass tell you?” When Dean dropped his gaze, Bobby exploded: “Answer me, _boy_!”

            “He said Sam could die if we try to dig those memories up.” Dean said quietly, and that stopped Bobby dead quiet. Dean flicked a glance up, met Bobby’s stunned eyes. “It’s gonna kill him, Bobby. And I can’t let that happen.”

            “Dean. He’s your _brother_.” Bobby said it like it was the last hope of a desperate man. And in a way, it was. It had to be.

            “Far as he knows, he’s not a Winchester, Bobby.” Dean said. “He’s not cursed. So let’s keep it that way, huh?” His voice broke slightly and he carded his hands back through his hair.

            “What’s Cass thinking?” Bobby asked after a couple seconds, voice more gentle.

            “Safehouse. Somewhere where the demons can’t find him.” Dean said, fingers still buried in his hair. “He’s out there puttin’ it together right now.”

            “And you’re just gonna let him go.” Bobby perched on the edge of the desk, facing Dean. Dean could feel Bobby’s eyes on him. “Just like that.”

            “Not like I’ve got any other options, Bobby.” Dean said.

            “Ah, balls. Dean, Sam would want us to fight for him.”

            “What the hell do you think I’m doing, here?” Dean demanded. “I _am_ fighting for him, Bobby. I’m fighting to keep him _alive_.”

            “You sure about that.”

            “You know what?” Dean kicked the chair back and got up. “Screw you.”

            “Dean! Don’t walk away from this. Dean!”

            He was already gone, heading blindly for the basement. Maybe to find Sam, maybe to escape Bobby. He slammed the door shut and took the stairs two at a time down to the bottom—and stopped.

            His jacket was lying wadded up on the floor. No Sam.

            Dean stopped, eyes widening. “Sam?” Took a quick visual sweep—saw the panic room door open, light pouring out. “Son of a bitch.” Dean hurried over and heaved it open the rest of the way. “Sam!”

            Sam was sitting on the cot shoved against the far wall, head in hands. Relieved to see that he was at least conscious, not rolling around in memories, Dean leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, and waited for Sam to realize he was there; waited for a couple minutes. It was like Sam’s hunter awareness had been hacked off with his memories. When he didn’t move and things got a little tense, Dean cleared his throat.

            Sam shoved his hair back and looked up; for one second Dean thought he saw the same old Sam in the glance angled his way. Then that weird empty _cold_ came back and doused out his hope.

            “Hey.” Dean said as normally as he could manage.

            “Hey.” Sam sighed.

            “Nice place ya got here,” Dean said in a pretty pathetic attempt at being funny. Sam looked at him uneasily and Dean blew out a long breath, walked over to join him. “Thought you decided to call it quits on the panic room.”

“Yeah, well. I figured if I’m going to help you guys, I can’t run away from whatever scares me, right?” Sam said with a cautious little smile. “Might be important.”

Talking like he could change anything. Dean’s guts tied up inside of him. He nodded to the cot. “You mind if I—?”

            “No, uh, go ahead.” Sam scooted to the end of the mattress and gestured at the empty space. Dean sank down beside him, elbows on knees.

            “Thanks.”

            The silence was like a really awkward first date. Sam ground the heels of his hands against his eyes and Dean twiddled his thumbs, realized he was doing that, stopped, started tapping his foot, stopped, crossed his arms on his knees and bowed his head.

“Earlier, while we were making dinner, uh…Bobby told me a little bit about my life before I lost my memories. He said you and I used to be...pretty close?” Sam said finally, uncertainly.

            Dean made a mental note to strangle the crusty old drunk. “What else he tell you?”

            “Not much.” Sam said. “He said we worked together.” He slanted a glance at Dean sideways. “Mechanics?”

            Okay. Maybe he didn’t need to kill Bobby. Just throttle him to within an inch of his life. “Yeah. It’s a family business. You, uh…you left Stanford to help me out after what happened to Jess. You needed a break from the whole _academic_ scene.”

            “Huh.” Sam chuckled softly. “I don’t remember any of it.”

            “Yeah,” Dean tilted his gaze up to the whirring fan inside the pentagram on the ceiling. “You’re better off, Sam. Believe me.”

            Funny. The more he said it. The more he actually believed it.

            Head angled toward Dean, Sam’s forehead creased with worried lines. He dropped his gaze to his hands. “I dunno, man.” He said quietly. “Something tells me I’m not.”

       

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

_March 7 th, 2012_

_Singer Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, South Dakota_

 

Dean wasn’t getting much sleep tonight.

            Not that he didn’t want to; hell, he was feeling pretty wrecked, figured losing himself inside a dream about a couple call-girls and a cheap beer would do him some good. But the first time he tried to get up off that cot and leave, Sam grabbed his arm, spun him around, turned on the puppy eyes and just said one word: “Please.” And he was caught like a fish on a freakin’ hook. Couldn’t leave Sam sitting down there fighting his demons alone. Not this time, not if him being there could do a damn bit of difference.

            So Dean ended up with his back to the door, sawed-off shotgun balanced on his knees. Sam was lying on his back on the cot with one leg pulled up, hands folded on his chest. Nothing but the sound of the fan _whumping_ overhead and their breaths filling in the silences. More peaceful than they’d been in…God, in a long time.

            “Hey, McQueen.” Sam said, finally, and it took Dean a second to remember Sam was talking to him.

            “Yeah.” Head tilted back, watching the fan.

            “Was I a good person? Before.”        

            Dean tucked his chin down to look at Sam, same time Sam rocked his head sideways to look at him. Their eyes met, and Dean’s fingers played hell against the barrel of the shotgun.

            “Why do you ask?”

            Sam shifted his shoulders in an awkward shrug. “I’ve got this feeling there’s something I’m supposed to be fixing. Something I did that I gotta make right, y’know?”

            “Listen to me. Sam.” Dean sat up straight, moved the shotgun onto the floor. “You hearin’ me? Everybody makes mistakes. Whole world’s screwed to hell. We got monsters—” He caught himself, closed his eyes. “Freakin’, _crazy_ people out there. Murderers, rapists, it’s the pits and it gets worse every single day. But you’re not one of those people.”

            “Yeah. Okay.” Sam said; looked a little confused, but if Dean said it this time, while Sam had his guard down and didn’t remember what he thought he _needed_ to blame himself for—maybe Dean could stop this stupid cycle they had of carrying the weight of the whole damned world on their shoulders.

            He thumped his head back against the door. “You gonna sleep, or what?”

            “In here?” Sam’s voice hitched up a little bit. “Man, I don’t know what it is about this room, but it’s like…it’s like there’s ghosts in here or something.” He laughed once, quietly. “It’s kinda freaking me out.”

            Couldn’t be ghosts, room was spirit proofed: iron walls, iron door.

            “If you can’t sleep, then go upstairs.” Dean grumbled.

            “No. I have to do this.”

            “Torturing yourself’s not gonna win you any brownie points, Sam.”

            “I know.”

            Silence filtered back in. Dean closed his eyes, let himself go back over the day: talking to Cass, talking to Sam, the argument with Bobby. He’d probably been a dick, storming out on Bobby like that. Not that he could do anything about it right now. But it wasn’t like Bobby was on the outside looking in on this. He was right there in the ring with them, ass-deep. He cared about Sam, too; like Sam was his own son. So yeah, he wanted Sam to get his memories back. Wanted to put the family together again.

            There was a stupid song Dean had heard months ago, because Lisa played it on repeat every day while she was making dinner. This one part kept coming back into his head: something about how you couldn’t get love without sacrifice. Stupid, crappy song. But for some reason the stupid crappy songs were usually the ones that applied when you had your defenses down.

            Maybe him and Bobby had been holding on to Sam too tight all these years. Now it was time to let go, free-fall, and figure out how to make it without him.

            Dean closed his eyes and started slowly peeling his grip off of the things he’d always believed made his world, his life, bearable, and let it fall loose.

            Next thing he knew, he was waking up out of some half-conscious dream, hearing the cot slam against the wall. He sat straight up, eyes sliding across the room, trying to focus, drag his way out of sleep. Blinked to clear his head, and bolted up onto his feet.

            He’d seen Sam having bad dreams before, basically his whole life, so he knew what it looked like; this was full blow-out nightmare warfare. Sam’s hands gripping the sheets in fists, head thrown back, body arching, then relaxing, yanking back and forth while he tried to run away from whatever was chasing him inside his head.

            Dean slung the shotgun onto the floor and ran across the panic room, grabbing Sam’s shoulders, pinning him down. “Hey! Sam. Sam! Sammy, Sammy, hey!” Dean said over and over, shaking him. He balled up a fist and punched Sam hard on the chest. “Snap out of it, man!”

            Sam’s eyes flipped open; his arm wrenched up, caught Dean solid on the jaw and slammed him to the floor.

            For a second, with Sam rolled over on his side on the cot and Dean sprawled on his ass in the middle of the five-point sigil on the floor, they stared at each other. Sam looked like hell, sweating and shaking again. Guy could still hit like a hundred freaking pounds; Dean felt the lump forming on his jaw.

            Sam saw it, too. His eyes went wide. “Oh. Oh, my God. I’m sorry!”

            “Ah. Don’t worry about it.” Dean said stiffly.

            “What the hell happened?” Sam sat up.

            “You had a nightmare.” Dean said, rubbing his jaw, looking at Sam closely. “You remember it, right?”

            “Not really.” Sam jammed the heel of his hand against his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut. “I was running from something.” His head swung up and he looked at Dean, distress making his eyes look way too bright. “I should probably get out of here.” He swallowed. “Guess I’m not strong enough.”

            He swung up unsteadily onto his feet and Dean lurched up beside him, grabbing his arm to steady him.

            Sam shrugged him off. “I’m fine.”

            Dean hung back, watching as Sam staggered through the door and headed for the stairs, head down, still soaked in sweat. His memories, punching through the new, fortified wall his mind had built around everything.

            A rush of air pushed against Dean’s back. He licked his lips, closed his eyes. “How long we gotta keep doing this, Cass?”

He heard the angel stepping closer. “That’s why I came. I’ve found a safe place for Sam. It’s prepared.”

Dean turned, meeting Castiel’s expectant gaze. “That was fast.”

Castiel nodded grimly, moving toward Dean. “As you requested, I won’t tell you the location. But I can assure you it’s far removed from any spiritual or superhuman haunts.” He stopped at Dean’s side, looking out the door. “Sam will be safe.”

“He’d better be.” Dean said. “The bone tats still work, right?”

Castiel nodded. “They shouldn’t wear off over time.”

“Check on it, if you get a chance.”

“I assume I’m not allowed to reveal my true nature to Sam?” Castiel said, and Dean shot him a glare. The angel nodded. “Of course not.” He glanced at the door, then stepped around, blocking Dean’s view of it. “You realize you’re being selfish in all of this, Dean. Don’t you?”

“Enlighten me.” Dean bit out.

“You are not the only one who cares about Sam.” Castiel said. “You told me once, when I was _dying_ , in your brother’s arms, that you and Sam, and Bobby, and myself—we are a family. You understand that you’re routing Sam from this family against his wishes.”

“Oh, Cass, c’mon.” Dean said bleakly. “Not you, too.” He turned around, running a hand down his face, giving himself a second to think. Then turning back to face Castiel. “Look, Sam doesn’t even know there’s a _family_ to miss.”

“Maybe he doesn’t realize it, Dean,” Cass stepped closer, getting into Dean’s face, the way he always did when he was trying to get a serious point across. “Not yet. But he can feel it. He’ll always know, deep down, that there’s something missing.”

“Yeah.” Dean turned his head aside, avoiding Castiel’s flaming eyes. “Well, I can live with that.” He brushed past the angel, heading for the door.

“Can Sam?”

Dean stopped, looked at Castiel over his shoulder; the angel stared at the wall, didn’t meet his eyes. Jaw locked, shaking his head, Dean headed upstairs.

It wasn’t sunrise yet, but it was pretty early—or late, depending on how you looked at it. Bobby was slumped over his desk, thumbing through a book. Dean stalked quietly past the doorway, heading for the bathroom upstairs.

Heard the water running before he got to the bottom of the stairs. Heard it shut off a few seconds later. He got to the bathroom and knocked on the door. “Sam?”

Few seconds, everything was quiet; the door unlocked, clicked, swung open and Dean stepped inside. Steam was so thick it could’ve choked him.

“Dude, are you burning incense in here or something?” He said, disgusted.

“Sorry.” Sam said; he sounded less freaked out now. “Figured I looked pretty terrible. A shower was probably a good idea.”

“Coulda put your shirt on before you answered the door.” Dean said, taking a sweep of Bobby’s cramped little bathroom. Force of habit, always case a room.

“I thought it might be important.” Sam said, tugging his hoodie on.

“Yeah, well, we got a rule about—whoa.” Dean caught a glimpse of Sam’s back and put a hand on his arm, stopping him. “Whoa, hang on a second, Sam.” He dragged him over to the rusted, misty mirror.

“What? What is it?” Sam demanded.

“I’m guessing you didn’t write this.” Dean said, hauling Sam’s shirt up his bony spine to show him.

The four letters looked like they’d been carved into the skin and cauterized at the same time, leaving one word, raw reddish-brown and still healing over, a few inches long, in the small of Sam’s back. Tramp stamp. Dean would’ve given him hell for that any other time.

Not this time.

“Arco?” Sam said, confused. “What the hell is that?”

“Not a what.” Dean let go of Sam’s shirt. “A _where_. C’mon.” He hit Sam lightly on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “We gotta talk to Bobby about this.”

 

 

“So? Got any ideas?”

“Oh, I got ideas out to Wazoo. Not one of ’em makes a damn bit’a sense, though.”

Sam was hunched over on the edge of the desk, Bobby taking a closer look at the burn on his back. Castiel was sitting stiff and still on the couch and Dean was pacing like a caged lion across the opposite side of the room, wall-to-wall. His focus was on Bobby and Sam.

“Gimmie your best _theory_.” Dean snapped.

“Near as I can figure, someone wanted you in Arco, Sam.” Bobby said, ignoring Dean. Sam rolled his hoodie back down and looked at Bobby round-eyed.

“What for?”

“Who knows? Why’d they let ya go in the first place?”

“I’ll tell you why.” Dean said sharply. “’Cause this ain’t about Sam. It’s about us. Whoever did this, they wanna start a fight.”

“In your case, it might be considered an act of war.” Castiel said.

“Thank you, Cass.” Dean gestured to the angel. “If he knows it, bad guys know it. See, this is why I want you out of the picture, Sam!”

“Well, screw that.” Sam said quietly. “I’m not letting any of you start some kind of fight for me, I don’t care _how_ good of friends we used to be!”

“They left a calling card, Sam, we’re gonna drop a line!”

“No, you’re not! If you want me to leave, then fine, I’ll go! I’ll go wherever he _tells_ me.” He nodded to Cass. “But first you gotta promise me you won’t go to Arco.”

Dean tucked his chin.

“Promise me!”

“Dammit, Sam. You know I can’t.”

“Then I’m going with you.”

“No!” Castiel, Bobby and Dean chimed in at the same time, and Sam pulled the bitchface of the century. If looks could kill…

“Sam. He’s right. You’re in danger as long as you remain with us. Returning to Arco, if that really is where you were being held captive—it would be hazardous for everyone involved.” Castiel said.

“Either all of us go, or no one does.” Sam insisted.

“We’re arguing in circles.” Castiel said. “Sam can’t go. And neither can the rest of us, apparently. So we’ll have to find a better solution.”

“Exactly.” Sam nodded.

“Great. You got some big game plan in mind? Oh, _wait_. Right. There _isn’t one_.” Dean snapped. “That burn on Sam’s back is the biggest freaking blinking light of the century and I’ll be _damned_ if I’m wasting the one, _solid_ lead we got.”

“Why are you so eager to put yourself in danger for me?” Sam was on his feet, raring for a fight. Dean could see it in his eyes.

“I dunno, _Sam_. Why are you so hell bent on goin’ to the mat for this?”

“Because apparently, there are people who are willing to die for me. And I think I owe them the same respect!”

“All right, enough, you two.” Bobby cut in. “I swear, you two are like a coupla cats. Sit down.”

“I’m not puttin’ up with this.” Dean muttered, rolling his eyes slightly and heading for the door.

“Wait! Hey!” Sam said, but he didn’t follow when Dean socked the door out of his way and stepped out into the frigid South Dakota morning. He walked straight for the Impala, hands in his pockets, and leaned against her. Waiting, because he knew what was going to happen next.

Wind-wash. “Dean. That was out of line.”

“If I gotta push him away, Cass, then I gotta push him away.”

“Give it time, Dean. We can find a diplomatic solution to this.”

“In the next three hours?” Dean asked quietly, tilting his head to one side to look at Castiel. “’Cause I’m not keeping Sam around here if I don’t have a damn good reason.”

“Dean. As your friend, I am asking you to look at this objectively. If it wasn’t Sam, would you be reacting this strongly?”

Dean shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. It _is_ Sam. And whatever hurt him, it’s in Arco. So I gotta find it and rip its freaking heart out.”

Castiel stayed quiet for a minute. “Bobby believes it was demons.”

“It fits.”

“If you refuse to let Sam help you, then you’ll take me.”

Dean laughed, harsh and brief. “Yeah, I don’t think so. I need you to get Sam to that safehouse and do it fast, Cass. If this whole thing goes south, I don’t want him with a huge red bulls-eye on the back of his head.”

“Then you want to take on a legion of demons. Alone.”

“Well, geeze, you make it sound so _suicidal_.”

“That’s because it _is_. Suicide. Dean.” Castiel said carefully, putting a punch behind every word. “And even you should know better.”

“I guess I don’t.” Dean turned to face Castiel. “Look, Cass, I don’t have a lotta people I can count on, all right? You and Bobby, you gotta help me. Help me get Sam outta this fight. I can handle the rest of it.”

Castiel’s eyes pulled taut at the corners. “Dean—”

“Yes or no, Cass.”

Castiel’s head whipped aside, jaw shifting. Dean waited, shoulders hunched, his breath creating puffs in the cold air.

Castiel sighed. “I’ll help you.”

Dean let out a long, steady breath. “All right.” He walked around the Impala and popped the trunk. “Bobby’s got a couple gallons of Holy Water inside. Grab ’em for me.”

“On my way.” Castiel vanished into thin air and reappeared just about as fast, a twenty-gallon jug in each hand. “Is this enough?”

“Overkill.” Dean grabbed one of the jugs and swung it into the backseat. “What’s goin’ on in there?” He lifted his chin toward Bobby’s house.

“Sam is trying to sleep. Bobby is looking into Arco—specifically, the Craters of the Moon.”

“Guess Rufus bailed a little early.” Dean slammed the door shut. “Party’s just about to get started.”

“I don’t understand your human view of warfare as some sort of joke.”

Walking back toward the house, Dean didn’t really have an answer for that one.

They skirted the study and went down to the basement, where they met Bobby under the stairs, sitting at the desk shoved back against the wall.

“Demonic omens are all over the place up there, Dean.” Bobby said, scooting around in the chair to face them. “It’s a spirit sandtrap.”

“Yeah, well, I got enough holy water to drown fifty of those sons of bitches.” Dean said bluntly.

“You know this is a trap, boy.” Bobby said roughly. “This stinks like Meg.”

“Are you referring to sulfur?” Castiel asked.

“It’s a metaphor.” Bobby replied.

“Bring it on. That bitch hurt my dad. She tongue-raped Cass. She got Jo and Ellen killed. Almost got _you_ killed, Bobby. Now Sam?” Dean shook his head. “About time someone tore her a new one.”

“I’m not sayin’ otherwise. I just think you could be a little more careful about this one.” Bobby insisted.

“Dude. Careful’s my middle name.” Dean said, and Bobby gave him that classic Don’t-Lie-To-Me-Kid look. Dean rubbed the side of his neck. “All right, I get it. This is big. Job of the century. _I can handle it_. Just get Sam out of here.”

“You are in way over your head with this one.” Bobby said.

“I know that.” Dean said. “Bobby. You gotta trust me. I can handle this, all of this this. But you gotta promise me you’ll take care of Sam.”

“Dean—”

“It’s taken care of.” Castiel talked over Bobby. “Do what you need to do, Dean. And get back as soon as you can.”

Free will. Freedom to make the choice. To fight the battle or stick around.

“Thanks.” Dean said gratefully, shrugging away from the wall and moving toward the stairs. “See you guys on the flip side.”

It worked for Dean to just wig out; make a run for it, get in the car and drive. But walking past the study upstairs, seeing Sam sprawled out on the couch, totally out of it—and knowing for damn sure this was the last time he’d see him. Something inside of Dean yanked back, stopped him in the doorway.

Everything. All the crap they’d been through, sacrificed, and this was what they were backed up against. Sam, without his memories. And Dean going out mano-a-mano against a pack of the devil’s advocates. He wasn’t totally crazy. It one of the stupidest things he’d ever done. But if these evil sons of bitches had whipped Sam hard enough to block out his memories, no telling what they’d do to Bobby, Rufus or Castiel. And Dean couldn’t take the risk.

He tread quietly across the room, sank into a crouch beside the sofa. Sam was flopped down on his chest, chin on the edge of the cushion. Still rallying from what he’d been through even though Castiel had healed him. At least—Dean rested his wrist on his knee, bracing his free hand on the floor—at least Sam was alive. He’d stay alive, out of this life, away from hunting. More than Dean could’ve ever hoped for.

            “If dad was still around, he’d kick my ass for letting you do this.” Dean said under his breath. “But I gotta take care of you, little brother.”

            He reached up, tugged the amulet off over his head and draped it around Sam’s.

            “Now you take care of yourself.” Dean leaned over and scruffled up Sam’s disheveled dark hair; he didn’t even move. Must’ve been sacked as hell. “Once a Winchester, always a Winchester, Sammy.”

            Dean walked out that door, and he didn’t look back.

 

 

            Sam woke up to a black, whirlwind hole in his chest.

            Jerking awake out of his dreams, he blinked against grainy, dying sunlight and sat up, swiping an arm across his eyes, not really sure what was making him feel like the walls were closing on him. Sleep was still holding on, a fuzzy dark mask on the edges of his vision. He shook his head and something warm, small and heavy thumped against his chest.

            Sam looked down at the tarnished gold amulet tangled around his neck, caught in the drawstrings of his sweatshirt. Frowning, he tugged it loose and looked at it.

            McQueen’s. This was his, in the few days he’d been at Bobby’s Sam had never seen him take it off. Not once. So what the hell was it doing around _his_ neck?

            “Sam?” Bobby walked in from the kitchen, toweling his hands dry. He looked world-weary, like he’d aged ten years since he’d told Sam to get some sleep on the couch.

            “He’s gone.” Sam said—not sure why the words felt like a punch.

            “I know.”

            “Cass?”

            “Still here. I gotta work on puttin’ together a packet for ya—fake IDs, records that don’t tie you in to any of us. Door’s open, kid. About time you walked through it.”

            “What about McQueen?” Sam demanded, and Bobby’s gaze fell to the floor. “We can’t just let him chase down a pack of—of _murderers_ on his own!” Sam insisted. “We can beat him to Arco, we can stop this!”

            “He’s not some crackpot with a gun, Sam. What you gotta understand is—we do this kind of crazy stuff on a day-to-day _basis_. He’ll be fine—always is.”

            “You don’t believe that. I know you don’t.”

            Bobby didn’t answer.

            “Sam.” Cass appeared behind Bobby, so fast it looked like he’d just materialized out of thin air. “Everything is in order. We can move you to the safehouse now.”

            “Bobby, please. Please. Let me help him.”

            Bobby lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “I gave him my word.”

            Sam looked at Cass.

            And knew he had one last shot at this.

 


	7. Chapter 7

_March 7 th, 2012_

_Singer Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, South Dakota_

 

“Were McQueen and I close, before I lost my memory?”

            Cass looked at Sam narrowly. “Why do you ask?”

            They were sitting on Bobby’s front porch, waiting for him. Waiting so Bobby could drive Sam to the bus station just outside of Sioux Falls, and send him south. Arizona. There was an address on a slip of paper in Sam’s back pocket telling him where to go and what to do once he got there. His whole life, his whole future, constructed out of the scraps these people had told him and the possibilities they’d built from God knew what. And now it was just him and his last best hope.

            “Just this feeling I got.” Sam said, reaching down to pluck on the cord the amulet was hanging from. Cass watched, looking mesmerized.

            “Yes.” He said after a pause. “You were close. Very close.”

            Sam took that one; didn’t surprise him, not really. Not with the way McQueen walked on eggshells around him and the feeling that there was something secret buried right under the surface of all of this. Maybe buried by both of them.

            “I don’t remember him.” Sam squinted against the light from the pole lamp flooding across the salvage yard. “But I know, that…he’s important. Or he used to be. And I gotta help him, Cass.”

            “Sam.”

            “Hear me out.” Sam insisted. “Whatever it is he’s walking into, he’s walking in blind, right? He’s got no idea who he’s facing.”

            “He’s aware.” Cass wouldn’t meet Sam’s eyes.

            “Of how much?” Sam demanded. “I know you’re worried about him. Bobby is, too. I know he’s doing something stupid, trying to protect all of us.”

            “That’s his nature. His ridiculous human nature.”

            “I can help him. Cass.” Sam scooted to the edge of the porch step and tried to catch Cass’s eye. “Look at me. I can help him.”

            “And how do you intend to do that?” Cass asked, still avoiding Sam’s gaze.

            “Whatever he’s after, it’s in my head, right?” Sam dragged a hand back through his hair. “So I need you to unlock my memories.”

            “No.” Cass said. “Absolutely not.”

            “Look, whatever you did before, that hypnosis thing, or whatever, it…it triggered something. Flashes, I dunno. But if you do it again, I might be able to see what’s going on. I can find out who did this to me and I can help you catch them.”

            “You don’t understand how dangerous that could be. Sam.” Cass finally looked at him, eyes bright, distressed. “It could cripple you forever. Render you incapable of functioning on even the most basic levels. Your mind barred itself _for your protection_.”

            “What if McQueen dies, and I could’ve done something?”

            “And if _you_ die?”

            The thought hit Sam like a block of cement to the head. The thought of dying, or getting trapped in his own head forever—it scared the crap out of him. It was like one of his nightmares, awake and walking around.

            But the thought of living with blood on his hands for the rest of his life was just as bad. Especially the blood of someone he used to care about.

            “I know something’s going on here, man.” Sam said tautly. “Something none of you want to tell me. The guns? The suites of armor? The _panic room_? This whole thing is weird. And I know you how to help me even though you keep saying you don’t. So either you work that hypnosis on me again, or I’ll have to find some other way to do it.”

            Elbows on his knees, hands clasped, Cass glanced at him. “Is that a threat?”

            Sam spread his arms in a shrug. “Call it a fair warning.”

            Cass hung his head. “Don’t ask me to do this, Sam. If I gave you what you wanted, you would never be the same again.”

            “Fine! Do it. I have to figure this out.”

            “You don’t understand what you’re asking of me.”

            “Yeah, I do. I’m asking you to suck it up and help me. McQueen’s your friend, too. Now I may have a hole the size of _Texas_ in my memory, but I know that this? This isn’t how things are supposed to be.”

            “He’ll murder us both.”

            “At least he’ll be alive to do it.”

            “This is a bad idea.” Cass said. Stared at the lamp post for a second. Rose to his feet. “Come with me. Quickly.”

            He led Sam around the back of the house, down a root cellar through a back way into the basement. He walked straight for the panic room door, and Sam hesitated, hanging back.

            “Wait, wait. In there?” He said, feeling the first real spasm of nervousness. Bravado only went so far when you were literally staring your nightmares right in the face.

            “It’s the only place where you can be safe within two hundred miles.” Cass stood with one hand on the door, and when Sam didn’t move, his expression darkened. “Do I need to remind you how much you’re already testing my patience?”

            “All right! Fine.” Sam stepped past him into the room and Cass followed him, heaving the door shut. He flicked his hand and Sam heard the bar on the far side catch as it slid home.

            “How did you—?”

            “Sit.” Cass pointed to the cot and Sam backed toward it, sinking down on the edge. Cass strode over, grabbed Sam’s legs and yanked them up onto the bed so that he was lying flat on his back. “There’s no way of knowing how your body will react.”

            Before Sam could ask him what that meant, Cass had his ankles strapped down in the restraints dangling off the foot of the bed. Sam jerked—couldn’t get loose. Panicked.

            “Hey!”

            Cass wrenched his arm down, secured his wrist, then leaned a fist against the pillow beside Sam’s head and loomed over him.

            “You wanted to save him. This is how it must be done.”

            Sam pulled in a few unsteady breaths and nodded. Cass moved to his other arm, strapped it down to the bed, then sat on the edge of the cot.

            “Listen to me, very carefully.” He said. “The inside of your mind is a maze, Sam, and it’s currently littered with the tattered edges of your memories. It’s possible you can reconstruct your past through these memories—but if you dig too deeply the scars will end you. You must be _very_ careful which memories you choose to delve into.”

            “I have a choice?”

            “There is always a choice.”

            It sounded a little too new-agey to Sam; then again, it was hypnosis, so what else could he expect? He nodded.

            “And remember,” Cass added. “The longer you’re lost inside your mind, the more difficult you may find it to return to reality. If you aren’t quick, if you aren’t _careful_ , you may lose yourself to madness and be left alone, wandering the abyss of your nightmares for all of eternity. If you manage the impossible task of rebuilding your memories, find a strength that will help you to return. Do you understand?”

            He didn’t; the whole thing—restraints, Cass’s instructions, all of it—it was scaring the hell out of him. Sam wanted to back out. Now. Take the folder of fake IDs and paperwork and leave town. Leave all of this behind him.

            One thing made him stay. One thing other than being strapped down to the cot.

            A stupid heavy amulet on his chest and realizing that life didn’t mean much if all you did was spend it running from the things that mattered. Like saving people.

            He locked his jaw, straggled a breath in through his nose. “Do it.”

            “Good luck.” Cass’s fingers touched Sam’s forehead.

            He was bracing himself for that white ice shock against his back teeth; instead he felt warmth starting between his eyes, spreading over him. Like a wet, heavy blanket, it dragged his eyes closed. Made his chest feel a hundred feet deep, breaths rasping in his ears. His heartbeat slowing down. Waves on a seashore, the tide going in and out. Slowing down. Almost to the point of stopping, but not quite.

“This is a very bad idea.” Cass said again.

Sam heard a faraway impact; saw Cass glance at the door. It opened a second later—wait. Sam thought he’d heard it lock. That didn’t really matter.

Now Sam heard Cass saying something to Bobby, he could barely pick up the words, “It’s already too late.” And the rest of it, less words, more like a feeling: _It’s in his hands now._

Sam let go of his tenuous grip on sanity, and fell.

 

 

            The shrill, annoying ring of the end-of-day bell plucked Sam out of a half-awake daydream about a white-washout room and someone’s hand on his forehead. Pencil tapping against his desk, he looked up at the clock: two-thirty. The kick off to the five-minute rush to empty your locker, say goodbye to your friends and get out to the bus so you wouldn’t be left behind.

            It was the worst part of the day for Sam; hand fisting around the pencil so hard it almost snapped. Counting up—thirty seconds. The classroom was almost empty already. One minute. He pulled his backpack into his lap.

            One minute, thirty seconds.

            Sam leaped out of the desk and bolted for the door, skidding out and barely dodging the spiky-haired, sneering fifth graders who were stalking outside the door.

            “Hey, teacher’s pet! What were you doing in there? Kissing Mister Conner’s ass?” Their leader taunted and his lackeys giggled and glanced toward the classroom door, probably hoping the teacher hadn’t overheard the forbidden word.

            Sam hitched his backpack onto his shoulder and kept walking. Shutting them out. That was what you had to do with people you couldn’t fight. Just walk away.

            These three gave up quicker than most, barreling past him, smacking into him so hard they spun him hard against the wall. “Smell ya later, ass-kisser!”

            “My name’s _Sam_!” He called after them, but somehow the words got stuck and snarled up inside of him. Didn’t really matter who he was; to them he’d always be the alien who’d transferred in the middle of the year.

            Sam couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like he fit in anywhere, felt like he’d been anything other than a sideshow freak. Nothing about him was normal; he knew that. But just this once he wished he could find a school where nobody else knew it.

            He scratched absently at a tickle above his left ear.

            Something smacked him from behind, knocking him onto his knees and ripping his backpack off. A burly eighth-grader ran past, hurling a curse over his shoulder—the last person in the deserted hallway.

            Sam wasn’t tough as nails, he wasn’t built titanium like the other kids pretended to be. He stayed down on his hands and knees; already missed the bus anyway, no one would care if he just stayed right there forever. Maybe he could turn to stone like the victims of the Medusa that the older kids had read about in the back of the books in English class. A stone boy stuck forever in the in-between.

            “Aw, man!” A voice behind him, startling him. He yanked back upright. “We missed the buses!” Hard breathing, like someone had been running. “Sam? You okay?”

            Sam looked shakily back over his shoulder into enormous green eyes.

            _Flash._

The surf ate its way up around his ankles, wrapping cords of seaweed as high as his knees. It was the first time Sam had seen the ocean, and he didn’t think he’d ever seen anything so big in his life.

            Seagulls warbled overhead and the surf kept coming. Steady and strong and constant, and then slowly getting faster. Then going back out. Sam pulled in a deep breath and it was like the tide moved with it, holding on until he exhaled. Sunset had turned the sand gold and the waves silver, and it was getting late. The beach would be closing soon.

            Sam checked the huge, clunky watch on his wrist. He’d been standing here for four hours. Ever since he’d gotten dropped off. He couldn’t feel anything beyond the tingling of his legs where the surf had been pounding on him. That and the huge aching black hole in his heart.

            “Hey, kid!” A lifeguard called down the shore. “We’re closing in five!”

            “Sam.” He said softly. “It’s Sam.” He looked back out into the ocean.

            May second, nineteen-ninety-three. It was his tenth birthday, and there was no one else around for miles except for a big buff lifeguard and a sand-covered crab side-hopping to meet the next oncoming wave. Sam wanted to go with it—jump into the surf and never come back out, let it pull him out to someplace bigger and better.

            Sam sat down slowly, legs crossed, the waves beating his chest now, rocking him.

            “Happy birthday to me.” He sang under his breath. “Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to…” He grabbed a fistful of mucky sand and let it glob out between his fingers. “Sammy. Happy birthday to me.”

            Tears streaked his cheeks when he looked back up, the wind grabbing chunks of his hair and whipping it into his squinting eyes. The sun sank below the horizon in a bruise-colored wash and Sam couldn’t hold down the sobs, hiding his face in his hands. He was ten years old, he wasn’t supposed to cry about stupid things like people forgetting his birthday. That was for babies.

            “Hey, kid!” The lifeguard barked, close enough to startle Sam and spin him around. “What are you still doing here?”

            “I was—” Sam broke off, eyes widening.

            The guard’s sneer, a hundred needle-sharp teeth in a black spiral of a mouth.

            The man lunged for him.

 

 

Arco was eighteen hours from Bobby’s salvage yard. Dean made it three before he started getting that black hole, something’s-not-right feeling in the pit of his stomach. He put it off for another hour, kept driving. And finally broke down and called Bobby.

            “I’m about to torch our holy angel.” Bobby said by way of greeting.

            “What’d he do, piss in your cornflakes?”

            “How about _put your brother in a trance?_ ”

            Dean stiffened. “What?”

            “He’s been out for about an hour.”

            “Put Cass on.” Dean said, voice a lot calmer than the storm that was starting inside his chest.

            The phone clicked, switching hands. “Dean, I have it under control.”

            “Under _control_?” Dean echoed scathingly. “What, like this is some kinda wargame? I told you to get him the hell outta town, not dump his memories on him!”

            “It wasn’t my choice. It was Sam’s. Dean, he begged me.”

            “You shoulda said no!”

            “What is the point of having free will if we can’t exercise it even in the face of danger?” Castiel demanded, shutting Dean up. “Sam wanted this, Dean. He wanted to do anything he could. To help _you_.”

            Dean white-knuckled the steering wheel, checking the rearview mirror; road was empty behind him, same way it had been for the last two hours. “How is he?”

            “He’s been quiet. Until now.”

            “What’s _now_?”

            “Now he appears to be in some sort of distress. He’s stirring.”

            “If he wakes up, you’re done. Understand? You don’t let him go back to sleep. You _make_ him ditch town.” The silence, rebelling. Dean narrowed his eyes. “We’re not losing him like this, Cass. You hear me?”

            “I don’t like it any more than you do.”

            “Yeah, if that were true you wouldn’t be telling me why this was a good idea.”

            “I never said it was a good idea, Dean. But it was Sam’s choice. And we have no choice now but to abide by it and pray he finds the strength to pull through.”

            Dean wasn’t much for praying, but in that split second he figured he’d stop the car, get down on his knees and pray from sunup until sundown if it would somehow make a damn bit of difference.

            “Call me if anything happens.” He said gruffly, disconnecting the call.

            The jugs of Holy Water sloshed in the backseat; somehow Dean hadn’t been able to plug in a tape yet, drown out the silence. The empty front seat felt bigger than ever now, with Sam back at Bobby’s, and Dean knowing there was a pretty big chance he wasn’t coming back from this.

            He wasn’t suicidal. More of a realist. His dad had gone after Meg and hadn’t really come back. The only thing that’d pulled him away from the edge for a few hours had been Sam and Dean stepping into the gap for him. And Dean didn’t have anyone to do that for him, because Castiel and Bobby were gonna stick with Sam.

            That was just how it had to be.

            For the fiftieth time since he’d made a pit stop just outside of Sioux Falls, Dean reached into his pocket and played with the mini-tape-recorder. Cheap piece of crap, but it would probably get the job done. _Probably._ He just needed to find the demonic hotspot, plant the thing and get it revved and running before the bastards smoked him out.

            And if he somehow did manage to get out of this by the skin off his ass, he was going to beat the fear of God into Castiel and Bobby. And if Sam woke up he’d beat the daylights outta him, too.

            Unless it worked. Unless Sam came back.

            Right. Like Sam coming back from the brink was ever that clean-cut, simple, black-and-white. There was always one reason to celebrate and about a hundred reasons to bury yourself up to your throat in booze and pretend life was something else.

            Fourteen hours to Arco.

            The Impala purred with pleasure as Dean pushed the pedal down.

 

 

            Sam fell flat on his back on the sand, arms swinging up to protect his face as the guard’s needle-sharp teeth came scissoring down. He felt the shredding impact cut through the bare skin of his wrists and an involuntary cry of pain ripped out of his thin chest as those fangs tore down to the bone.

            Eyes wide, blinded by blood and the last dredges of a scarlet sunset, Sam saw the glamour over the guard’s body fade, his legs running together like water, turning into—fins? Flippers?

            Teeth locked into Sam’s arms, the merman dragged him into the surf.

            Sam’s head went under, a deluge of salty water pouring into his nostrils, burning a fiery trail directly into his lungs. The reflex was a gasp that opened the spillways of his throat, dumping more water in until black fuzzy spots burst into his line of sight.

            Sam lost his grip on everything. Floating.

            Flashing.

            One second, face down in the water.

            The next, a feeling of something cream-and-yellow and a thumping hum over his head. It all got swallowed up in the dull roar of the blood in his ears.

            And the surf, breaking against his back as waves came toward him in short, powerful bursts. He heard a wavery, echoing shout, and then the water around his head turned warm with blood.

            Something strong pinned him around his chest and turned him up, cold wind beating his face. A hand swept the soaked hair from his forehead. “Sam. Sam! Oh, God. Kiddo, your eyes. Open them. Sam, that’s a direct order!”

            Sand, grit and pain twisted Sam’s face into a rictus. His eyes stayed glued shut.

            “Sam! No.” A heavy warm hand tangled itself in the hair at the back of his head, holding it up clear of the water. The lack of the tide’s motion made Sam dizzier than anything. “No, no. No. Come here, c’mere, you’re all right. Sammy.”

            Skin brushed skin as Sam lay half-supported by the water, half held up by strong arms. Forehead-to-forehead with someone he couldn’t see.

            “Come back. Sammy. Come on back.”

            A plea. Not an order, not anything like a command. Begging him. For the first time in his life, it was his choice.

            And it made him want to live so badly the feeling alone might have killed him.

            He gasped, retching, spewing up a mouthful of salty water and jackknifing upright in that steady warm grip. He heard a breath sucked in over his head, full of surprise and relief and abandon. “Sammy.”

            “You forgot,” Sam gagged out another mouthful of saltwater. Somehow this was important. Somehow it mattered more than his burning lungs or throwing up seawater so hard his stomach cramped. “M-m-my, my birthday.”

            “Oh, no. Sammy, no. I didn’t. No, I didn’t.” His head being pressed forcefully against warm water-soaked leather and a heartbeat. “We were just looking for your present.” This guy laughed, softly. “Your first gun, Sammy.”

            His first gun. For hunting the—

            _Flash_.

            Sam skidded across damp leaves and leaped, landing lightly on top of the fallen tree. The moss threatened to trip him up; slippery as ice. He stayed poised on top, listening, feeling the cold Colorado air whipping through his hair. In mid-November, it was brutal up here.

            That didn’t matter. None of it did. Standing stiff-still, listening, every muscle locked and rigid. Sam heard someone panting up behind him.

            “Did you lose the trail, sir?”

            “It’s Sam. And be quiet for a second.” Sam murmured, motioning with his hand. He picked is head back up and kept listening. Listening for that iconic, back-of-the-throat cackle of the creature on the move. It would be trying to shake them, now that it already had its prey. It would want them gone, not lured in.

            Prey. It already had—

            “No.” Sam said under his breath, turning a complete circle on the tree, face contorting with a fear that he couldn’t just keep choked down inside of him. “No, no, no.”

            He’d already lost enough. First Jessica. Now this? He’s expected the hits to start coming, but man, this soon? This hard? This fast?

            He ended up facing back into the forest, every nerve-ending raw under the wind.

            And that was when he saw the blue M&M half-buried under the leaves.

            A smile split across his face.

            _Flash_.

            Sam scrambled up onto the hood of the car and laid down on his back, watching the endless open face of the night sky sprinkled with stars from one end to the other. No trees to break it up, even. No clouds. Just miles of nothing. Maybe someday Sam would be an astronaut and visit every single planet and take pictures of the stars. He could do it. He was already learning how nothing was impossible or fake, not really. Maybe aliens were real, too.

            A flare shot up into the night sky far away, and Sam sat up, eyes fixed on the red glow. Every sense on alert. He knew what that meant. Was better than an SOS. Flare meant help. Flare meant red, like blood.

            Sam slid off the hood and went running, crossing the field before the last sparks of the shot had faded.

            Found him down on his knees, arm curled around his ribcage, blood soaking out of the crook of his elbow. Lined face ashen. He looked up at Sam with so much failure in once glance. Helplessness, rage.

            “Sammy.”

            “Sam. _Sam_ , remember.” Like saying that, trying to make things normal, would change the fact that it was just the two of them. And there should have been three.

            “They got him, Sammy.”

            “Nu-uh, nu-uh, _no_!”

            “No!”

            _Flash_.

            “Gyuh! No—stop it! Stop!”

            Twisting, thrashing against hard weights pinning his arms outstretched away from his body, Sam glared blind murder at the man. His eyes, pitch-black and lightless, grinned down at Sam even though the man’s mouth was a hard line.

            “We’ll take this nice and slow.” He murmured. “Won’t we, brothers?”

            Sam’s own mouth twisted itself into a horrible representation of a smile through bloody gums and a tongue he’d nearly bitten the tip off of with his attempts not to scream. “Actually. That’s exactly what I want you to do.”

            “Is it, now? Winchester.”

            “It’s—”

            A glacier of pain shattered above Sam’s left ear, pinioning images across his head. Warm drinks in the dark corner of a sleazy bar. A woman’s legs wrapped around his waist. A spoon shoved in the corner of his mouth.

            Somehow, Sam’s scream felt like it was on all sides of him.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

_March 8 h, 2012_

_Singer Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, South Dakota_

 

Castiel was sitting with his hands clasped against his lips when the screaming started.

            He looked up from his position on the edge of Bobby’s couch; looked up at the old hunter, who was poring over the map of Arco for the hundredth time in case Dean needed them. In the space of two seconds the scream rose from a groan below their feet to a full-on body-wracking yell, and Castiel didn’t have to think in order to _move_ , shifting himself from the couch to the panic room in one breath.

            Sam was twisting and thrashing on the cot, arms ripping against the restraints, feet scrabbling and bucking, trying to lift his body off of the bed. His face a horrible, ugly mask twisted with agony. The sight of it plunged deeper into the well of unease and despair that Castiel had been battling since he had first watched Sam sink into sleep the night before.

            Bobby crashed through the door, swearing. “Cass—!”

            Castiel crossed the room in two strides, trenchcoat swirling, and laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder, trying to touch him lightly enough with a burst of power to sink him deeper into the trance—but to no avail. The young hunter kept writhing, unresponsive to Castiel’s ministrations.

            “The hell’s the hold up? Do something!” Bobby barked.

            “If I send him too deeply into sleep, he’ll be in greater danger than he’s already facing.” Castiel leaned over Sam and all but shouted into his face: “Sam. Can you hear me? This, whatever it is, it is the _wrong memory_. Find something else to latch on to.”

            “Balls, let me in there!” Bobby grabbed Castiel’s arm and wrenched him back without resistance, but before Bobby could move in closer and begin some sort of long-winded lecture, Sam’s rigor relaxed. His fingers uncurled from the sheet and his head turned away from them, the pain in his expression easing.

            Something about it didn’t feel right to Castiel. He rested a hand on Sam’s cocked knee, the closest thing he could touch, and felt what he’d already sensed, only stronger now. Of course. He was cognizant of the life-force given off by all beings, but with the Winchesters and Bobby Singer it was something else entirely, as familiar as his own vessel. So he’d felt it, almost within himself, when Sam’s grip slipped for a moment.

            “What’s goin’ on?” Bobby asked softly.

            “It seems for an instant, Sam forgot.”

            “ _Forgot_?” Bobby echoed incredulously. “I thought the whole point of this fool idea was to help him get memories _back_.”

            “And as I told you, the path Sam is walking is a narrow and dangerous one. Whatever he remember just a moment ago, it…tortured him. Dragged him down deeper.” Castiel shifted his jaw. “For an instant, it seems we lost him.”

            “He’s back now, though?” Bobby sounded almost afraid to know the answer.

            “For the time being, it seems he has returned to the path. But whatever he experienced must have been what humans refer to as Hell on earth.”

            Beside them, Sam let out a small, barely-human whimper.

 

 

            Arco, Idaho. First city in the world to be lighted by atomic power.

            Some places Dean had seen when he was on the road with Sam, they called them back-ass of nowhere. So far off the beaten path you couldn’t get there without sturdy wheels and a lotta spare time for back-tracking into ruts and mud-holes.

            Arco was worse than back-ass of nowhere. It was like someone had just decided to plant a community in the middle of the mountains and leave it for horror-movie zombie bait. Or in this case, demon-bait. Take your pick, either way it was bad news.

            Dean motored into town after sixteen hours of driving, feeling like someone was taking a buzz-saw to his teeth. He was that tired. So, first things first: Arco Inn. Single room. If he was going up against Hell’s Harem solo, he’d need to do it with a little sleep and whole lot of luck.

            The heater at the back of the room was choking on its last legs. Dean slung the duffle onto the bed, dropped face-down into pillows that smelled like chloroform, and groaned out one really long breath, tucking his arms under the pillow.

            Tired didn’t even being to touch this. But his brain wouldn’t shut off. It was sixteen hours in the rearview, in that house with Castiel and Bobby and Sam. _Sam_. If his brother was still hanging on it would probably be a textbook miracle.

            Dean fished his phone out of his pocket and checked; no missed calls from Bobby. Had to mean nothing had changed. Right?

            That, or they didn’t want him getting distracted.

            Dropping his head back onto the pillow, Dean speed-dialed Bobby.

            Picked up right off the bat. “Told you I’d ring ya if something changed.”

            “Yeah. Well, get used to it, I’m calling in every couple hours.” Dean sighed. “So? Any change?”

            Bobby stayed quiet a few seconds too long. “Everything’s fine, Dean.”

            “Whoa, whoa, hold on.” Dean picked his head back up. “What was that?”

            “What was what?”

            “That pause! You paused.” Dean grilled him. “Bobby, what happened?” Silence on the line. “Bobby!”

            “Cass thinks Sam…slipped.”

            “Slipped.” Dean echoed. “As in, ‘help-I’ve-fallen-and-I-can’t-get-up’ slipped?”

            “Lost his grip for a few seconds. Rode a ride he wasn’t ready for.”

            “Like a memory of Hell?” Dean swung up into a sitting position.

            “Or something like it, yeah.”

            “Dammit, Bobby!”

            “Whaddya want me to say, Dean? It was those two idjits who cooked this whole thing up, I had nothing to do with it! Not much we can do about it now, though, ’cept untwist our panties and try and help out where we can.” Bobby let a pause filter into the end of that mini-lecture. “Now. You wanna tell me where you are?”

            “Arco. I’m gonna try and get a couple hours’a sleep before I tackle this.” Dean rubbed a hand back through his hair.

            “Good. I’ll letcha know when I hear from Rufus, he’s got Marked Tree covered.”

            “Thanks.” Dean ended the call and tipped over onto the pillows.

            Outside, lightning slanted on the edges of the low-banking mountains, calling for a storm. And the girl sitting on the hood of the Impala crossed one leg over the other, a wiry grin plastered on her face, looking up at the sky. “Well, this was stupid even for you, Deano.” She closed her eyes and the pure clean rain flattened her curly hair against her head. “That’s what makes you so much fun.”

 

 

            Sam woke with a splitting pain in the side of his head and a white-noise ring in his ears. The only thing that made his situation bearable was the soft pillow under his cheek and a blanket around his shoulders.

            Without even having to look, he knew he wasn’t alone. “Did you get it?”

            “The werewolf? Yeah, we got ’im, Sammy.”

            Sam closed his eyes. “Something’s wrong, dad.”

            “’S’matter?”

            The flash of concern made things worse, because Sam didn’t have a straight answer. “I’m not sure. My head—”

            “Your head?” John interrupted. “The werewolf clipped your ribs, Sam. Your head’s fine.”

            No, it wasn’t. It was splitting on the edges. Sam had a feeling he’d done something…something that had brought the headache on.

            A knock at the door brought Sam’s head up, and John patted a careful hand on his leg. “You stay put.” He got up, walked to the door and cracked it open. “Can I help you?”

            “I have the medicine you requested. That boy—”

            “It’s Sam.” John and Sam said simultaneously, and there was a pause.

            “Yes. Sam. He is badly hurt.”

            “He’ll pull through.” There was a rattle of pills in a bottle and the door closed. A few seconds later John pulled Sam onto his back. “Here, son. I need you to take these.” He popped two pills into Sam’s hand and helped him sit up. Sam obediently took them, even though he hated dry swallowing and if it wasn’t John, if it had been—

            The headache corkscrewed deeper. Gritting his teeth and wincing, Sam leaned back on the pillows. “Dad.”

            “Right here, Sam.”

            “What happened to mom? I mean, what _really_ happened?”

            John’s face was suddenly world-weary. “I don’t know, Sam.”

            “What’s your best guess?”

            John stared down at his hands, smoothing them together over and over again. “It could be some kind of spirit. A fire elemental, maybe. But they’re so rare it’s almost impossible.”

            “Is that why you never talk about her?” Sam asked quietly. “Because you don’t know?”

            “Sam, you don’t understand.” John’s voice, harsher than it had been a few seconds before. “Some things are dead and they should stay buried.”

            _Flash_.

            A dining room, with white streetlight glare cutting through the slatted blinds. Sam slumped against the wall, fingertips pressed against the plaster behind him. Staring at two crumbled dead bodies on the floor. One of them perfect, immaculate, a girl with blonde hair and pitiless, staring eyes.

            The other smeared in the blood he’d crawled through to get away. To stop Sam from seeing…

            _Flash_.

            Sam scrambled to sit up on the bed, feeling the jolt of blood in his veins like someone had kicked him in the heart. Gasping, face scrunching with the aftershock of confusion, he rubbed a hand over his chest. Felt a spidery dull roar of pain splitting off from his back, like someone had stuck a knife in it.

            Hauling up onto his feet, Sam wandered over to the mirror at the foot of the bed, and rolled his shirt up to get a good look.

            A punch of shock split through his veins at the sight of his scar.

            _Flash_.

            His hand closing over a muscled shoulder, from behind. “Is that burn on your shoulder hurting you?”

            “It’s nothing. Geeze, Sam, lay off!” Smacking his arm away. “You gonna get movin’ on the case of what? Poltergeist’s not gonna banish itself.”

            _Flash_.

            Sam tried to pry his head away from the wall, but the angry spirit had too strong a hold on him. It forced him back, body flush up against the doorpost that dug into his back. Pain ricocheted off his nerve endings; this couldn’t be it. He couldn’t die here, not in this house where they’d lost everything.

            The fiery silhouette appeared suddenly across the room, and Sam braced himself, arching away just a little bit from the wall, as much as this thing’s iron grip would let him. He stared at it—wanted it to know he wasn’t afraid, that he’d die facing it. To keep that family safe.

            And then he realized it wasn’t the poltergeist; it had an outline, a figure. The same build as him, but more feminine.

            Sam’s head tilted to one side.

            Couldn’t be…

            _Flash_.

            Sam was flat on his back, staring up at the jagged rifts of the sky falling to pieces. Lost inside the feeling of tar and black evil blood moving through his veins. It was a part of him, it _was_ him, a filthy, evil rotting piece of trash. No better than any vampire or werewolf or dark spirit.

            It didn’t matter what they did or how long they kept him down here. He’d never be free of this disease. It was a part of him now.

            “Help me.” Sam choked; his throat so dry he felt like he hadn’t had anything to drink IN years. “What the _hell_ am I?”

            The walls exploded inward and Sam was lying curled on his side on the floor of the panic room. Drenched in sweat and shaking, the metallic licorice taste of demon blood on the back of his tongue. He crawled toward the door and leaned against it, arm, shoulder, cheek pressed into cool iron. Even with that, he was still burning up.

            “Guys.” He called with whatever strength he had left. “Let me out. P-please.” No answer. “Bobby?”

            _Flash_.

            Sam sat on the porch, strong arms from behind wrapped around his small, shivering body. “How many stars, Uncle Bobby?”

            “Hell if I know.” Bobby grumbled.

            “I’m gonna count ’em all someday!”

            “Yeah?” Bobby sounded amused. “How’re you gonna keep track of all those stars, kid?”

            “I’m gonna write it all down in daddy’s journal!”

            _Flash_.

            Sam pulled the journal out from under the mattress where he’d seen his father hiding it. Flipped it open and started reading.

            _Woman in White_.

            A slice of pain over Sam’s heart. His fingers pawed over the pages.

            _Vengeful spirit_.

            Two guys with a video camera running screaming out of a burning house; a lightning-blue flash riding between Sam’s top teeth like a livewire.

            _Demons_.

            Yellow eyes flashing across a black room. His dad lying crumpled on the floor, strong chest going still for the first time that Sam could remember.

            _Skinwalkers_.

            A man in a chair staring at him with a heartbroken expression.

            An empty pit of coldness yawning through Sam’s chest.

            _Flash_.

            Sam opened his eyes.

            The panic room was empty, and the headache was inching its way back. Someone had cut him loose from the restraints; feeling as though his head was overflowing with the unstoppable tide of memories he’d been subjected to, he pulled himself up onto his feet, one hand to the wall. Maybe this hadn’t been the best way to retrieve his memories.

            But at least now he had them; fragments. Bits and pieces.

            Not enough. Cass had to send him back.

            “Cass?” Sam called. “Bobby?”

            No answer. He shuffled toward the door, pulled himself up the stairs with one hand on the railing. His body felt like a lead weight—like retrieving the memories had added a physical burden to him.

            Demon blood. His dad’s death. His mom’s.

            Sam clumped to the top step and paused to catch his breath; he was sweating just as bad as he had been in his memory of the panic room. “Bobby?” He called again, hoarsely.

            Still nothing; but standing still, his senses trickling back, Sam heard someone moving in the kitchen.

            Curling one arm around the subtle twinge in his gut, Sam hurried through the study and toward the open doorway. “Bobby—!”

            And stopped in his tracks like someone had turned him to stone.

            This guy kept his back to Sam, putting a sandwich together. Right in the middle of Bobby’s kitchen like he belonged here. The thin, piercing ringing started up in Sam’s ears again and the pain trickled in behind his left ear.

            He knew who this was. Knew the long shaggy dark hair, plaid shirt, relaxed, indifferent posture.

            Didn’t know how he knew. But he just _did_.

            “What are you doing here?”

            “I think you know the answer to that.” A flat answer. No inflection.

            “Get the hell,” Sam hissed. “Out of my head.”

            “Can’t.” The guy turned around. “I’m a part of you, Sam.” Soulless, empty hazel eyes fixed on Sam. “If you really want to save him, you have to look at every part.”

            “No. I have a choice.” Sam said, but even to himself he sounded unsure.

            “You’re right. You do.” The soulless side of him said condescendingly. “You can pull out. Right now. Let yourself wake up with just the pieces you’ve got. Or,” He spread his arms wide, shifting his weight heavily onto one leg. “You accept that I’m a part of you that just _fits_ , Sammy. You haven’t even looked at me unless you’ve had to since you came back from the pit. And that’s not going to work anymore.”

            Sam wasn’t one hundred percent sure why; but he knew he wasn’t supposed to touch this memory. Not this one. He needed to back out, let go. Now.

            “This is your last chance.” The soulless side said, quietly. “Last chance to save everyone, Sammy.”

            Sam looked at him, up and down.

            “Do it.” He grunted.

            The soulless flicked an empty smile. Jaw working slowly—building up to it. “Annalise. Stetson.”

            It hit Sam like a freight train: loudness and blood and violence and sex, food crunching in his mouth without much flavor, broken hands scrabbling at his cheeks, a razor wire wrapping itself around his brain. Sam tumbled onto his knees, grabbing at his head like he could force the memories back inside.

            “Nn—nn—gyuh!” Sam vomited up all of his air, slumping onto his chest.

            “This is the good part.” His soulless self took a leisurely bite of sandwich and watched the crippling result of his work.

 

 

            “Hhh—hnnn.”

            It was the first sound Sam had made in hours. Bobby and Castiel looked over at the bed. Sam was twisted almost onto his side, one arm pinned awkwardly under his body. The sounds coming out of him were rasps, his lungs wheezing. Like he had pneumonia or a punctured lung.

            And then the tears started; rolling out from under his closed eyes, dripping into his half-open mouth. He wheezed, gasped, and his head rolled sideways on the pillow. Shooting Castiel a look of concern, Bobby got up and walked over to the cot. Maybe the kid was finally coming around.

            “Sam? You hear me, boy?” Bobby murmured, resting a callused hand gently on Sam’s upper arm.

            Sam curled into himself for a second.

            Then wrenched back, an inhuman scream ripping itself out of his throat. Screamed so hard Bobby could almost _hear_ the blood vessel bursting inside his eyes. And a few seconds later a thin trickle of blood joined the tears.

            “Holy Moses!” Bobby swore. “Cass!”

            Castiel was at his side in a second, shoving him roughly out of the way and grabbing Sam’s head in his hands. “Sam. _Sam_.” He said, his voice quiet but firm. Sam didn’t respond, to the touch or to the angel’s voice. At least he’d stopped screaming. But now he was just slumped over, a thin stream of saliva trickling out of the corner of his slack mouth.

            “He’s burning with fever.” Castiel said grimly, hands gently palpating Sam’s skin. “And it’s come on quickly. Too quickly. We must do what we can to lower it or he’ll suffer brain damage.”

            “On my way.”

            It took Bobby two minutes to grab a bucket of water and a clean rag from upstairs, and by the time he came back Castiel had turned Sam more comfortably onto his back. It was Bobby’s turn to shoulder the angel aside and lay the strip of soaked cloth on Sam’s forehead. Sam whimpered and shied away from the feeling.

            “What’s happening to ’im?” Bobby asked, his voice getting caught in his chest. Seeing Sam like this—Sam, kid with a heart so big he somehow had it in him to love the world’s biggest screw-ups, Bobby and Dean and Castiel. It tore something inside Bobby to shreds.

            Castiel laid a hand on Sam’s forehead, sweeping his hair back, and the gesture was so heartfelt and tender it brought tears to Bobby’s eyes; tears he hid with a well-timed cough.

            “He’s fading.” Castiel said softly.

            “Fading. Fading _how_?”

            “He must be facing his most difficult memories. His worst enemy.” Castiel’s eyes hooded slightly. “Himself.”

            “Tell me can beat this, Cass.” Bobby said sharply.

            “His body is fighting these memories like a parasite.” Castiel replied. “But until Sam embraces the memories that the wall kept hidden from him,” He shook his head. “He may lose himself to his own past.”

            Bobby held still for a few more seconds; then headed for the door.

            “Bobby. Where are you going?”

            He stopped in the doorway, looking back. “I ain’t much for prayin’, but I’m goin’ up those stairs, and I’m gonna get down on my knees and pray to your absentee daddy that Sam pulls through.”

            Castiel’s eyes softened. “Send my regards.” He looked back down at the flushed, shaking Sam. “He’ll need all of the prayers he can get.”

 

           

            “Whole herd of cattle dead, huh?”

            “Yessir. Thirty of ’em this week, and my neighbor lost twenty-five of his a fortnight ago.”

            “Uh-huh.” Dean scribbled down a note on his legal pad. “Well, I can assure you. We at the Department of Agriculture are making this our…highest priority.”

            “Well, I sure hope so.” The farmer peeled off his hat and scrubbed a hand on his hair. “These cattle keep the place afloat during the winter months. Can’t afford to lose anymore of ’em.”

            “I hear ya.” Dean snapped the notebook shut. “Thanks for your time.”

            The farm was on the far north edge of Arco and the third place Dean had checked out. Farmer’s story fit right in with what Bobby had told him: cattle mutilations, electrical storms, the whole demonic nine yards. Cut and dry case of Hell’s heebie-jeebies. Not only that, but Dean had found flecks of sulfur on the Impala’s hood when he’d started her up. Meant demons had been close—maybe watching him sleep, which was creepy as all get-out. Good sign, though; the bastards hadn’t shagged ass outta town. That gave him more time to track ’em down and smoke ’em out.

            If they wanted to go for Dean’s weak spot, they’d better believe he was gonna come back with both guns blazing.

            There was something about the whole case that was kinda bothering him, though. Something Dean would’ve talked to Sam about, if Sam was actually there to talk to.

            Speaking of. Dean checked the dash while the Impala bumped down the back road toward civilization. Been a couple hours since he’d talked to Bobby, he was tossing around giving him another call. Except the farmer had given him a legit lead: really bad strong smell out by the Craters of the Moon monument. Same place the Native Americans back in the day had believed was a hotspot for spiritual mojo and fire serpents.

            So Dean had a choice. Call Bobby up, or head out the monument and check up on a smell that coulda been sulfur.

            Loosening the tie on his bureaucrat suit, Dean headed for the Craters of the Moon.

            His phone rang through the background noise of Metallica’s ‘Nothing Else Matters’. Dean pulled it out of his pocket and checked the Caller ID. Not Bobby. He connected the call. “Rufus?”

            “Hey, Dean.” Rufus said. “I just got done giving Marked Tree the sweep.”

            “And?” Dean checked the rearview mirror, switching lanes.

            “And there were definitely demons out here same time as your brother. Not only that. Turns out there was an accident involving a truck not far outside of Memphis; I ran the plates.”

            “Sam’s.”

            “Yeah. Day the truck was found, all the omens cleared out.” Rufus paused. “They were waiting for him, Dean.”

            “Son of a bitch.” Dean said under his breath, pulling the phone down from his ear and pressing his mouth to the back of his hand. For a few seconds he stared at the road without seeing it.

            “Dean! You still there?” The fuzzy voice filtered through the speaker.

            “I’m here.” Dean brought the phone back up. “We gotta waste these things, Rufus. I don’t care what it takes.”

            “I hear ya.” Rufus sounded distracted. “Listen, I’m on my way back up to you. All the signs are pointing toward those demons in Arco being the same ones that had your brother, so you can bet they’re planning something.”

            “I was thinkin’ the same thing.” Dean admitted. “This case seem a little clean-cut to you?” When Rufus didn’t answer, Dean added, “Cattle mutilations, electric storms…I dunno, Rufus, something doesn’t feel right. It’s textbook. Too perfect.”

            Rufus chuckled. “There’s a reason they call these things _textbook_ , Dean.”

            “Yeah.” Dean pulled up at the inn, headed into his room. “Well, doesn’t matter anyway. I’m headin’ out to the monument right now.”

            “What?” Rufus snapped. “No! Dean, this is too big for one man to handle. Wait for me to back you up!”

            “Yeah, about that.” Dean pulled the phone down and cut the call. “Sorry, Rufus.” He tossed the phone on the bed and changed back into civilian clothes. Did a double-check on everything: rounds in his guns, holy water, and the tape recorder still in his pocket. He didn’t like the thought of having to shoot a demon’s vessel, but at this point he’d been pushed beyond weighing his choices on that.

He could debate semantics once he’d sent every one of those smoky sons of bitches back to Hell.

           

 


	9. Chapter 9

_March 9 th, 2012_

_Craters of the Moon National Monument, Arco, Idaho_

The whole place smelled like sulfur.

            Was the first thing Dean noticed when he got out of the Impala. Standing with one hand on the roof of the car, the other braced on the door, dragging in a deep breath. He almost gagged; the rotten-egg smell was probably expected in an old volcanic graveyard, but bank on a demon using that to disguise its own stench.

            “Sneaky, sneaky.” Dean said lowly, pulling out a flask of Holy Water from his front pocket. “I got your numbers, though.”

            He nudged the door shut and grabbed the can of red spray paint from the trunk, shaking it up on his way toward the fenced-off edge of the parking lot. Had to duck behind a tumble of boulders when a security vehicle motored past; not a real tight line of defense. Then again, who wanted to sneak past a guard just to climb all over a volcanic graveyard?

            Oh, right. Nobody except for him.

            Dean hopped the chain fence and dropped down on blistered black ground; shrugging his shoulders deeper into his jacket, Dean ducked his head low and ran, sliding down a short slope that hid him from sight of the parking lot. With his back pressed to the slick edge of incline, Dean checked the recorder—again—shook up the spray paint and took a look around.

            That farm had been pretty backwoods; this place was downright scary-quiet. Especially with that sulfur smell everywhere triggering Dean’s memory of being downstairs. Not so bad it was really bothering him, but enough that this place felt like it shoulda been—lightning and gray skies and meat-hooks digging into him. Non-stop screaming. The fact that the only thing he could hear was the wind and his own breathing was a little weird.

            Dean twisted around and elbow-crawled back up the slope, taking a look at the parking lot. The security car made another pass and Dean slithered back down and took off running, jumping over pits in the black crust on the ground, heading for a tumbled-down crush-pile of rocks in the distance; looked like it’d jetted out of the volcano during the eruption that’d created this whole place.

            On the back side of the rock pile, Dean got down on one knee and laid out a Devil’s Trap, just as a fallback. Feeling the familiar brush of the gun in his waistband, he cut loose a sharp smile. Bobby and Castiel probably hadn’t even noticed the damn thing was gone from the locked drawer in Bobby’s desk; good thing, because even with the Colt, going up against a hoard of demons was still a risky job. And if they got him, they’d have the gun.

            “Not gonna happen.” Dean muttered, straightening. He had a plan for that already.

            He took another sweep; couldn’t see the parking lot, couldn’t see any farms or anything. It was cold out and getting colder and his nose was starting to get used to that wicked-strong sulfur smell. Wiping his face on his sleeve, Dean started walking.

            Wasn’t really sure what he was looking for; just waiting for a feeling like evil was getting close. Or for the smell to ramp up again. Walked for damn near half an hour, pretty much wandering in circles, and finally got so frustrated he just stopped. Spread his arms wide.

            “All right, you dickless bastards!” He yelled. “You wanna sink your teeth in me? Let’s get this show on the _road_!”

            Dean heard one long, straight thunder-roll from across the mountains like boulders collapsing down a hillside.

            The shadow reared up straight out of the monument like the stupid ugly son of a bitch had just been _waiting_ for an invitation. Heading straight toward him.

            “Crap.” Dean spit under his breath, and then he turned and bolted.

            Back toward the rock-pile.

            Demon—demons?—thing was fast. Coming right at him; Dean looked back once and kept going, sprinting, sulfur smell aching inside his chest. He jumped over another roped off section—why the hell was there a rope in the middle of the monument? Six hundred feet; five hundred; four.

            Happened in a split second. Dean was running, and then he hit a patch that felt funny. Not lumpy black coal stuff. Thin. Spidery splinters under his boot.

            Volcanic glass?

            His foot punched through, dropping him down on one knee, jagged sharp edges slicing into his thigh. Dean’s hands slammed down flat on the glass and it broke under his weight, plunging him through.

            He didn’t fall far, maybe sixteen feet, but he slammed down on his leg and felt something pop, hard. Then his hip twisted down, shooting fire up through his ribcage and into his shoulder, the next part to hit.

            Dean lay on his side with the wind knocked out of him. Daylight over his head blacked out when the demons swarmed in. Without enough breath in his lungs to do what he really needed to do, Dean grabbed the recorder he’d planned to plant wherever the demons were hiding out, and punched the button.

            His recorded voice, tinny and shallow, cut through the little crater: “ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus_ —”

            Dean slumped down with a bloody smile where the impact had made him bite into his cheek. The demons were tying themselves in knots trying to get away from the exorcism, but they didn’t have time. There was a sizzling flash and the demons disappeared.

            “Eat it.” Dean huffed out, dropping his head onto his arm.

            For a while everything was quiet and all he could hear was the air rushing in and out of his lungs. Pain in his ankle was so bad he might’ve passed out on a bad day. But today—he was good. Those demons were in hell and they could rot in there for a few good years before they clawed their way back out. Wasn’t as good as killing ’em, but right now it was good enough for him.

            A cascade of smaller rocks drifted down on Dean’s face. Squinting his eyes against the grit, he twisted his head around and looked up.

            The security guard was kneeling on the edge of the hole. Not offering to help him or anything. Just staring at him.

            The skin prickled on the back of Dean’s neck. “You just gonna sit there all day, fugly?”

            The man’s eyes flicked black.

            Dean ripped out the Colt and pulled himself up sitting against the side of the hole. The man’s head snapped back, belching out a cloud of black with a high-pitched shriek. Then he slithered down into the hole beside Dean.

            Dean moved to catch him; wasn’t fast enough. He heard the sickening crack, _felt_ it rattle up his arms when the guy’s neck hit the around.

            “Dammit!” Dean swore, slumping back down.

            Sixteen feet in a hole and no way out. Not until Rufus showed up.

            Dean leaned his head back against the wall.

            Good a time as any to call Bobby.

 

 

            Shaking, gasping for air, Sam rolled up off of the kitchen floor.

            The soulless half of him looked down with condescending eyes. “You really are pathetic, Sammy. Look at you—can’t even stand up.”

            No argument there; Sam’s knees felt like water. He gripped the edge of the table and stared up at the impassive face of evil, the one he’d been shoving down for months. “You’re right. I’m not like you.” He dropped his head, still fighting for breath; his throat was a cold, raw pipe burned through with bile. How many times had he thrown up? “But at least I’m still human.”

            The soulless half shook his head. “Barely. You’re barely _alive_. Those memories should have been enough to do the job.”

            “Maybe I’m a little stronger than either of us gave me credit for.” Sam flexed his fingers on the edge of the table. And slowly tried to pull himself to his feet.

            Didn’t work. He went back down in a heap, the knifing pain back in his left temple, ripping through his brain.

            “Enough.” The soulless half said. “Stop. Just stop fighting it.”

            “I’m not just gonna give you control of my body again!” Sam snarled, picking his head up, glaring. “I’m not letting you hurt anyone else. Ever again.”

            “Sammy.” The soulless half knelt in front of him, face a mask of falsified sympathy. “I’m doing this for both our sakes. You’re too weak to live. Too flawed. Me, I’m—I’m what we were always supposed to be. I’m stronger, Sammy. I’m just better.” He reached out, rested a hand on Sam’s face. “You understand that, don’t you? You know I can do the job. Better than Dad. Better than anyone.”

            “No.” It was all Sam could manage; that touch on his face making everything hurt worse, bleed worse. Bleed—why was he bleeding? Rivulets of red running down the sides of his face, down his arms, making bracelets against his wrists.

            “It’s okay, Sam. You can let go. Let me take it from here.” The soulless half said gently. “I know the things I did—they’re hard for you to understand. But you’ve done enough. Fought enough. Sacrificed enough. If you let go now, your soul can finally be at rest. It’s too damaged to keep limping on. And me…I’ll pick up where you left off. Saving people. Hunting things, the—”

            “Family business.” Sam finished, eyes sliding shut.

            “Exactly.” The soulless half gripped Sam’s hair lightly, rocking his head from side to side. “Deep down, you know I deserve to survive. You know…I can finish the job. I can stop the monsters. I can end all of this.”

            Sam looked up through wet eyes, blood pooling in the corners. “What about Bobby? I know what you almost did to him.”

            “I won’t touch him, I swear. I won’t bother any of them. I’ll just go and take care of things by myself.”

            And Sam couldn’t lie to himself—couldn’t say it didn’t sound like the answer to everything. No more suffering through the debilitating migraines brought on by his memories. No more job pressing heavy on his shoulders. Heaven was out there waiting for him—with John and Mary, Jessica—all the people he’d lost.

            It was the best offer he’d ever gotten.

            “So, how about it, Sammy?”

            But Bobby—Bobby and Cass. They were counting on him to finish something. Something important. Something that was bigger than this room and the thumping pain behind his left eye. Bigger than anything his mind could wrap itself around right now.

            _Let’s start a war._

            Sam rocketed up onto his feet, knocking his soulless half ass-end on the floor.

            Dragging in breath through gritted teeth, Sam glared down at the soulless half that looked—for the first time—unnerved?

            “You don’t think I have a right to live, too?” Sam bit out. “You stupid, soulless son of a bitch.”

            He reached into his waistband for the gun he hadn’t known was there until that second: pulled it out and plugged the soulless half three times in the heart, dropping him back onto the floor of Bobby’s kitchen, wide-eyed and staring.

            Sam leaned his shoulder heavily against the doorpost, dropping his head, glaring through the hair flopping into his eyes. “And it’s Sam.”

            _Flash_.

            “Sam.” Cass materialized in front of the motel room door, smiling. “It’s good to see you alive.”

“Yeah.” Sam matched that smile. “You too.” And it was—last time he’d seen Cass, it’d been in a shower of blood disappearing into the black edges of Sam’s vision. And knowing that was his fault.

Cass stepped away from the door, arms spread for a—hug? That was a little awkward. Sam dropped down into his seat and Cass shot him a hurt glance.

“Look,” Sam said quickly. “I would hug you, but…”

But something about that wouldn’t—

 _Flash_.

Sam leaned back against the tunnel wall. Didn’t know how long he’d been in here this time, but it’d been too long. One minute in this maze was too long. And it’d been…years, probably. Years, looking for a way out.

            Something moved between Sam’s shoulders, like the edge of the tunnel was coming alive. He jerked away from the wall, forcing his tired legs to turn him around, to face whatever fresh threat this was—knowing that no matter what it was, it would be the end of him. This time.

            It shifted again, a soft pulse inside of ribbed purple rock. Sam locked his knees to keep himself from crashing down onto the floor. Hellhounds. An illusion. Didn’t really matter. Nowhere left to run.

            The wall punched inward suddenly in an ashy spray and Sam jolted back a step, staring at the hand that clawed its way through. Followed by a whole arm, a torso, someone wriggling their way into the cage. _Into_ the cage, when all Sam had wanted for decades was to get _out_. He would’ve laughed if he hadn’t been totally frozen with shock.

            And then there was a face in his view. A face Sam had never thought he’d see again. His knees buckled and he went down on the tunnel floor, staring up, blinking fast and hard.

            “Castiel?”

            “Sam.” Castiel’s blue eyes refracted dim light from behind him. _Real light_. “I didn’t think you would be conscious.”

            “How?” It was all Sam could manage, stunned, throat dry.

            Castiel reached a hand out to him. “It’s difficult to explain.”

            _Flash_.

            “You wouldn’t understand!” Sam hurled his duffle onto the bed and stormed for the bathroom, shaking his bangs out of his eyes.

            “Oh, I understand, all right. I understand perfectly what a selfish, arrogant child you are!” John didn’t give any quarter in his reply, chucking his bag onto the floor and squaring up as Sam spun back around to face him.

            “You know what? Go to hell!”

            _Flash_.

            A hand closed over Sam’s upper arm—

And ripped him, a feeling of a piece of him splitting away, leaving a tingling, shattered sensation behind. He collapsed onto his side, his scream of pain drawing the Hellhounds back onto his trail. Through seeping eyes, he saw the wall crumbling in again, a hand reaching back for him, one cry:

“Sam! No!”

            “No. No, please.” Sam crawled toward the wall on his hands and knees, digging his fingers into the hard rock. “You can’t leave me in here!”

            The first Hellhound reached him, sinking its claws into his spine and wrenching him over onto his back.

            _Flash_.

            Pinned down on a cold black table of stone, Sam could hear the distant drip of snowmelt running through cracks in the ceiling. It was worse than anything else they’d done to him—and they’d done a lot. Between that and the migraine that wouldn’t go away, Sam felt like his hold on everything was sifting away.

            A hand curled around his wrist out of nothing, popping the tendons and spraining his fingers open. He grunted softly and tried without success to pull away.

            “My patience is wearing thin,” A low, rumbling warning. “Where. _Is_ it?”

            “I told you, I don’t _know_.”

            “Hm.”

            An electric shock pierced through Sam’s hand as every bone from wrist to fingertips shattered. Arm laced down with barbed wire to the table, he couldn’t do anything but scream it out until his throat was raw.

            “I’m starting to think you’re telling the truth.” A hand dragged itself through his hair, ripping out strands. “Maybe we need a different use for you.”

            _Flash_.

            “We’ve got big plans for you, Sam.” Warm soft lips kissed his hair; his cheek was pillowed on her collarbone, the bittersweet taste of the blood still burning on the back of his tongue. “But it all comes back to this. You and me, remember?”

            “I know.” He sighed, nuzzling closer to her neck.

            “We’ll beat ’em, kid.” Ruby laughed softly. “You and me.”

            He looked up at her black eyes—he hardly even noticed them anymore. They always looked like that after he fed.

            “I know.”

            _Flash_.

            “I know what I am!” Sam snarled, backing toward the bathroom, arms spread wide in a challenge. “I’m a freak on your leash, dad.”

            “Oh, don’t give me that, Sam. You’ve been hiding behind that excuse since you were fourteen years old, and I’ve had it up to _here_.” John cut his hand sharply through the air parallel to his head. “It’s time you grew up and accepted what you _really_ are.”

            “What’s that?”

            “One of us, son.”

            The motel door banged open and Sam’s head whipped angrily aside, catching a glimpse of wide, wary green eyes.

            “Sam!” John snapped. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

            _Flash_.

            “Look at me.”

            He slowly, slowly raised his head.

            He was beyond pain. Beyond feeling anything. The only thing he could hear: the blood dripping off his chin onto the floor. The slowness of the breaths chafing in and out of his lungs. All he could see: the _thing_ standing in front of him. Ashy blond hair and half-rotted skin. The way memory made him seem in this hundred-ways Hell.

            _Lucifer_.

            Lucifer’s hand coming up. Resting against his blood soaked cheek. “Look at you. Do you think I wanted this for you? For either of us? We had something great going for us upstairs, and you had to waste it all. For what? For _love_.”

            When that hand pulled away, his head slumped back down. No strength left. Didn’t even know if he was tied up, tied down, sitting, standing. It didn’t matter.

            “And now look what you’ve done.” Lucifer rocked back on his heels, arms crossed. “You’ve brought us to this. Five years in this _one_ _torture cell alone_ , and you’re doing better than I’d hoped. If I make it out of here, I might just take you with me. You could be useful now that you’re a little more compliant.”

            He shuddered, forcing up a spew of blood from his mouth.

            “It’s amazing what a man will endure when he has something to fight for. But I think your time for fighting is just about…up.” Lucifer said sympathetically. “It never should’ve taken this long.”

            Another burst of blood sprayed from his lips. He felt like he was fading, fading fast. So much agony that just needed to be _over_. And he’d jumped—for what? For this? For an eternity of _this_?

            Or for army men in an ashtray and legos in a car vent.

            For two men in a panic room, watching over him.

            For the weight of a necklace against his chest.

            _Find a strength that will help you return._

            Breath gurgling in the slop of his lungs, he tried to say it: the thing he’d been looking for all this time. From beaches and forgotten birthdays to his head on Ruby’s shoulder to Hell. And back. Had to go— _back_.

            He couldn’t say the words, but dammit if he couldn’t _try_.

            Spitting up more blood. He’d say it if it _killed_ him.

            “Look at you.” Lucifer said, and there was a little more bite to his tone as he knelt. They were both on the floor, then. “So weak, you can’t speak. You can’t even remember who you are, can you? It’s all getting swallowed inside of what _we_ are, together. I wish you could’ve seen it sooner.”

            “Nnng…hnn.” He gasped out all of his air, wrapping one arm around his torso. At least that much was free.

            “What’s that?” Lucifer leaned in close.

            He closed his eyes.

            Ellen, turning around at the bar counter to smile at him. “Sam.”

            His dad, gripping his arm. “Sam, wait.”

            His mother, eyes tracing his face to remember it: “I’m so sorry, Sam.”

            Ash, smiling. “Howdy, Sam.”

            Jessica, kissing his cheek. “Aw, Sam. Long day, baby?”

            Sam. Sam! _Sam, please_. Sam, don’t go. You’re family, Sam _. Sam, the boy with the demon blood_. Look at me when I’m talking to you. Sam. _Sam_!

            An arm secure around his neck, fingers knotting into the back of his shirt, folding him into the tightest hug he’d ever felt in his life. “Sammy?”

            “S-Sam.” He said, and his voice brought in a fiery brightness that the cold of Hell couldn’t touch. “Name is…Sam. Sam Winchester.” Slowly, picking up his head. “My parents were John and Mary Winchester. Demons killed them and my girlfriend, Jessica, on your behalf. I’m a hunter.” Raising his eyes. “I drank demon blood. I started the Apocalypse. I went to Hell. You know why?”

            “Stop.” Lucifer said; first time he’d ever given a command.

            “To save everyone. _Everyone_. But especially the people you killed anyway. Bobby!” He fisted his hand over. “Castiel. And,” He sucked in an unsteady breath, eyes flickering. “Dean.”

            “No.”

            “You killed my brother, you son of a bitch.” Sam snarled. “I’ll tear you apart!”

            A vivid white flash burst through the room, shoving Sam and Lucifer apart. It filled the chamber with the kind of warmth that went inside of who Sam was, filling in the cracks of his essence, of his soul.

            “It’s time.” The voice, nothing short of glorious.

            “Michael.” Lucifer said, anger and pain fusing together into the name.

            “Sam. Someone’s come to take you home.” Michael’s echoey voice spilled into every empty corner of Hell, highlighting it with power. “Go.”

            “Not without Adam.” Sam said quickly.

            “Adam is with me. I’ll look after him. Sam,” Michael insisted. “You must go. He’s here for you. And only you.”

            Somehow, Sam had it in him to get up onto what was left of his feet. To go the way he knew the door out of here had to be—the door back into the maze. And toward whoever was waiting for him.

            “Sam.” Michael hadn’t moved, still between Lucifer and his intended vessel. Sam looked back. “I’m sorry it took me this long to remember what I was fighting for.”

            Sam nodded; there was nothing else to be done.

            Michael’s essence pulsed white-hot. “Let’s play, little brother.”

            And a fist closed over Sam, drawing him out.

            For a while he was floating in something tight and warm and enclosed, not really feeling like himself. And then there was a hand, bony fingers, impossibly cold, seeming to wrap around him. And he was straggling, everything bleeding away from him.

            Until he heard that breathing. Breathing like someone in the other bed, breathing like the windows open on highway that never ended, with that same other person always beside him in the front seat.

            And for just a second, when realities collided, Sam saw the haggard, anguished face he knew better than anything, maybe even better than his own.

            _Dean_.

            A kid helping him off his knees in the middle of a hallway; barging in to interrupt Sam and his dad, demanding if Sam was all right; walking in on the biggest argument of Sam’s young life. Fights and late nights, hunts, and bloody, tearful unsure moments scattered across a lifetime of bad luck. Times when Sam didn’t have the strength to do it himself and somebody else had to be that strength for him.

            Heaven. Hell. And the Soulless spot in between.

            Always watching his back.

            _Dean_.

            _Flash_.

            “I need you to bring something to me. It’s important for every party involved. And while I know you don’t make a habit of associating with angels, I’m willing to bet you’ll make an exception in this case.”

            “It won’t be easy.”

            Sam stood with every muscle in a rigid coil, ready to bolt or lash out even though logic told him neither one would do much good. Glaring pure hatred at the dark-skinned man that leaned toward him, mouth close to Sam’s ear.

            “Of course not. It’s a matter of business. You want to know what’s plaguing you. Why you can’t sleep. Why you feel so empty and…isolated from your family. I can give you the answer: the ultimate answer. I can tell you who brought you back. But first you have to bring me a prize. It’s a matter of showmanship and trust. Eternal trust.”

            “Which I don’t have for you.”

            “I don’t ask for it. I’m asking for cooperation.”

            Sam found his own reflection in the mirror behind this guy’s bald head. And saw two halves split on one face: the face of the memory and the soul looking in. Horrified by what was coming next.

            “I’ll do it.”

            “I thought you would.” The man backed off, pitiless eyes flashing. “But let’s hear you say it.”

            Sam cocked his head slightly in a show of nonchalance. “I’ll bring you Dean Winchester.”

            Sam whooped in a crushing breath, jackknifing awake. The first thing he heard through the sudden mile-an-hour clamping of his own heartbeat was Bobby on the phone two feet away.

            “—don’t know what else to tell you, boy. Rufus is on his way, I—”

            And then Sam made a noise like a drowning man who’d gotten the water pumped out of his lungs, and Bobby wrenched around to face him, eyes wide. “Sam—?”

            “Dean.” Sam dragged himself up onto his elbows, barely aware of the hair slicked flat with sweat and blood to his forehead. Stretched out a hand toward Bobby, pleading and demanding. “Dean.”

            “I got him right here.” Bobby nodded to someone behind Sam. “Sit him up.”

            Castiel took Sam’s elbow in one hand, curled the other arm around his back and heaved him up into a hunched-over sitting position. The second Sam was vertical, Bobby held the phone out to him. “Here. Talk to your brother.”

            Sam grabbed the phone, orienting his shaking fingers to the device. “Dean?”

            “ _S-Sammy_?” Dean sounded five years younger. Sam squeezed his eyes shut. “Dammit, it’s good to hear your voice.”

            “Dean, listen to me. It’s not demons.” Sam said without opening his eyes. “At Arco. It’s not demons, it’s _angels_.”

            A pause. “No, no, Sam, that doesn’t make sense. All right? I banished ’em already, they were right where Bobby said they’d be. Inside the monument.”

            “It _wasn’t_ them, okay? I remember what— _who_ —grabbed me. It was Raphael.”

            “How do you know that?”

            “Because,” Sam curled his free hand into a fist and shoved it against the creases on his forehead. “Because I sold you out to him.” Buzzing silence filled the line. “Dean, I’m sorry.” Dead quiet. Sam’s eyes slid open. “Dean?”

            A static that didn’t sound natural.

A choked cry of pain that was twisted up with the wet splatter of blood against stone. Sam’s eyes flew wide. “Dea— _Dean_!”

A click.

Then silence.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

_March 9 th, 2012_

_Singer Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, South Dakota_

 

Sam threw the phone onto the foot of the cot. “Dammit, they got him.”

            “Raphael?” Castiel sounded like he didn’t want to hear the answer to that.

            “I don’t think it’s just him.” Sam sat up, so shaky he could barely keep his head from wobbling. “We have to go to Arco. Now.”

            “Hold your horses for a second, you idjit!” Bobby braced a hand on Sam’s shoulder, keeping him down. “We just got you _back_ from goin’ topsy-turvy inside your head. I ain’t lettin’ you outta my sight ’til I’m good and sure you aren’t gonna drop dead.”

            “I’m not. But Dean’s out there, Bobby, Raphael’s got him. We don’t have time for this!”

            “Let Cass handle it.”

            Castiel cleared his throat uncomfortably. “That would be impossible. I don’t have a weapon with enough power to kill an archangel.”

            “I do.” Sam glanced over his shoulder at the angel. “I got it from a demon, back when I was soulless. It was a fallback plan in case Raphael didn’t,” Sam’s throat was suddenly dry. “Hold up his end of the bargain.”

            “I ain’t ever seen it.” Bobby said skeptically.

            “That’s because I hid it.” Sam admitted ruefully, flicking his hair back out of his eyes. “In a safety deposit box outside of Bloomington, Illinois. After I found Dean, I guess,” He shrugged helplessly. “I decided I didn’t need it anymore. So put it someplace safe.” He paused, letting the memory tug its way into place. “I covered the box in Enochian sigils, I think.”

            “You remember that much?” Bobby demanded.

            “I remember taking a knife to the metal,” Sam squinted up at him. “I remember the box number and the code.”

            “So you just drop outta life for a little shore leave inside that broken down wall’a yours, and this is all we get?” Bobby gaped at him. “You’re actin’ like you never had a wall to begin with!”

            Easy enough for him to say; he didn’t have the memory of having his skin boiled off in ribbons or demons slicing him open from head to foot with needles. “Just got lucky, I guess.” Sam hobbled up onto his feet. “How long was I out?”

            “A few days.” Castiel answered, stepping forward. “If you’re going after Dean, then I’m coming with you.”

            “Thanks. I’ll need the help.” Sam said, but for some reason the thought of being alone with Castiel made him a little uneasy. He shrugged it off. “Bobby, listen, we’re going to need—”

            A shuffle of pain ground on and off above his left temple. Sam froze up waiting for it to pass, getting another subtle flash against the backs of his eyes that made his pupils dilate in a way he could _feel_.

            “What now?” Bobby settled his hat more firmly on his head.

            “Meg.” Sam said shallowly, eyes darting. “Raphael wanted Dean for Meg.”

            “What does that hell-spawn want with him?” Castiel demanded.

            “Not sure. But it’s nothing good.” Sam turned to face him. “You can spirit us both from here to Bloomington, right?”

            “I can try.”

            “All right. Bobby, can you find some Holy Oil? Maybe we can get the jump on Raphael and trap him.”

             “Unlikely.” Castiel said gravely.

            “Better safe than sorry.” Bobby hurried for the stairs and in the silence that followed him Sam heard a sound that was weirdly glorious: rainfall.

            “Where are you going?” Castiel asked as Sam strode for the door.

            “Outside.”

            It was a downpour and Sam was okay to just stand underneath it, let it wash the crusty sweat and blood off his face. He touched his fingertips to the outside corner of his eye and they came away running red. His eyes hurt, he was sore like he’d had the flu. And the memories were flushed up right under the surface like a fever, ten times hotter beneath the icy rain.

            And Dean was out there. Dean, the person he’d forgotten. His brother. Guilty didn’t being to cover it. But Sam knew he couldn’t spend hours beating himself up for that. Right now, it was save Dean or lose him. Walking that high-wire. And that was more than a feeling, it was for damn sure: he was on the edge of losing his brother to a deadly tug-of-war between angels and demons, all over again.

            He wanted to tell Dean they were coming for him, he’d pull him out of this fire; all he could hear, over and over again in his head like a bad song stuck on repeat, was the sticky slap of Dean’s blood hitting the floor and the grunt of pain that’d come out of his brother before the call had cut off. Not come out, been _punched_ out, there was no other word for it. Reflexive agony.

            Sam rolled his shoulders inside his shirt, loosening up.

            Castiel appeared behind him, eyes narrowed against the downpour as he handed Sam a flask of Holy Oil. “Bobby’s given us all he can. We’re wasting time, Sam.”

            “All right.” Sam tucked the flask into his pocket. “Let’s go.”

            Castiel nodded once, then reached out a hand. Sam barely had time to brace himself for the impact that he knew was coming less than a second later.

            His feet hit hard ground and he buckled, staggering against the first solid resistance he met—which turned out to be the wall inside the safety-deposit vault. Garish taupe light poured down from the fluorescents overhead as Sam looked over his shoulder, toward the locked door of the vault.

            “How did you know where to go?” Sam asked, confused.

            “I am an angel of the Lord, Sam.”

            “Yeah, I _remember_. But there’s gotta be a dozen vaults in this city!”

            “This is the fifth we visited.” When Sam just stared at him, Castiel looked away with an awkward shrug. “We were moving very fast.

            Sam blinked. “How do you get _used_ to that?”

            “It’s all I’ve ever known.” Castiel said, brushing past Sam. “Now, we have to work quickly. Which box is it, Sam?”

            Sam closed his eyes, letting that particular memory slide into focus. “Uh. Three-one-oh-one-nine.”

            Castiel perused the shelves of boxes and finally settled on one. “You’ll have to be the one to…” He gestured at the Enochian script Sam had laced on the outside. Try explaining _that_ one to the bank manager.

            “Oh, right. Sorry.” Sam grabbed the box and slid it out, laying it on the table in the middle of the vault—and finally, belatedly realizing he didn’t have the key. “Crap.”

            “A problem?”

            “There’s no _key_.”

            “Well. You did mean to angel-proof the box.”

            “I know, I know!” Sam muttered. “Just give me a second to think.” Clapping a hand over his eyes, he tried to remember where he’d put that stupid key while he was soulless. Those memories were still the haziest and brought back that thumping on the left side of his head.

            It took him a few seconds, but he got it; face scrunched up, eyes screwed shut. He got it.

            “The Impala.” He said. “Under the front seat, it’s stuffed inside the upholstery.” He heard a rustle of movement and dropped his hand. “Cass?”

            The angel was gone.

Sam counted; one second, two seconds, three seconds. Got to twenty-six before Castiel reappeared, key in hand.

            “What took you so long?” Sam asked, snatching the key from him.

            “Dean’s car had been towed. I had to listen in on several drunken conversations before I found the lot where it had been parked.”

            “He’s gonna kill someone.” Sam said. “Listen, deposit boxes always take two keys to open. We’ve got this one,” He held it up for Castiel to see. “The other one belongs to the bank. Think you could find it?”

            “Sam.” Castiel shook his head with a slight smile. “Don’t underestimate me.”

            He disappeared again, and Sam wondered why there was this sudden uneasy gap yawning in the pit of his stomach.

            _Don’t underestimate_ —

            Castiel reappeared, dropping the other key into Sam’s hand. “Hurry.”

            “Did you get a read on Raphael?” Sam inserted both keys into their slots and braced the box with his knee.

            “There was a strong angelic presence near the monument.” Castiel shifted. “Sam. Raphael will not be operating alone. He’s more powerful than either of us. And it’s likely he will have reinforcements—those who are loyal to him.”

            “I know.” Sam gave the keys a twist; missed the mark. Locked his jaw and got them back into position.

            “What I don’t understand is _why_?” Castiel growled, clearly frustrated. “Why would an archangel side with a demon? It goes against every creed of Heaven.”

            “Simple. They both want the same thing.” Sam took a deep breath and twisted the keys again, hearing the satisfying chatter of tumblers falling into place. “They want the cage open.”

            He popped the box open and stared down at the long, faintly glowing white seraph sword. His satisfaction at seeing it again was tampered down a little bit by knowing a pure human soul had gone to create it.

            Sam froze. “Wait, that’s it.”

            “That is what?”

            “Souls, Castiel. Souls are weapons.” Sam ran his hand down the sword. “Maybe even in their raw form. It’s why everyone’s been looking for them.” He let out a soft, amazed laugh. “Whatever we let out of Purgatory, it wants monster souls. That’s why all the monsters are turning humans and then killing them off. And Raphael’s after pure, _human_ souls. So he can crush out all of the resistance in your civil war.”

            “I know.” Castiel moved to stand at Sam’s side. “I’ve suspected for some time now that souls would be the key to this war.”

            “Then why didn’t you tell us? Dean and me? We could’ve helped!”

            Castiel turned a look on him that was so profoundly sad, it cut into Sam. He swallowed hard, dropping his gaze.

            “Let’s just go.” He grabbed the archangel blade and Castiel reached for him.

            They dropped down on uneven rock, Sam reeling back a step to regain his footing. Castiel’s hand shot back to rest on his chest, and the angel spoke, tone a warning: “Sam.”

            Sam looked up, his grip tightening on the sword.

            A line of people stood between them and the edge of a road so cold it almost shimmered. People who weren’t moving, just staring at them.

            Something told Sam they weren’t tourists.

            “Raphael’s followers.” Castiel said—as if Sam couldn’t guess.

            Wind swept the barren landscape, ripping Sam’s hair into his eyes. “Think we can—?”

            “Not possible.” Castiel shoved him back a little. “Sam. Go. I’ll deal with them.”

            “What? No!”

            “Don’t be afraid. I’ll call on my supporters to help you deal with Raphael.”

            “Cass, I’m not just gonna leave you here!”

            “Sam!” Castiel said harshly, lowly. “Find Dean.”

            His fingertips contracted, dismissing Sam in a blur.

            The vessels shifted forward as Castiel squared up to them sideways, braced and ready, eyes narrowed dangerously.

            “I will take every single one of you down to your knees.” A furious white glow started in the palms of his hands. “Come on!”

            Sam blinked his eyes open, standing in the middle of a sleepy street in a snowy city. He back-scrambled to the sidewalk, a honking motorist whizzing past, and looked around. Couldn’t tell which direction he’d teleported from. Much less where Castiel was. Couldn’t go back and help his friend.

            Sam bit the inside of his cheek. He had to prioritize; find Raphael, find Dean, find Meg and her demons before they made an exchange that would erase every trace of Sam’s bother. Then track Castiel down.

            First step would be the hardest, because like it or not, Raphael was a strategist. He wouldn’t set up a rendezvous with Meg anywhere humans could walk in on it. He also wouldn’t set it up where she’d have some slant of advantage. Of course, she wouldn’t agree on a meet that lent itself too heavily to _his_ protection, either. And how much were hunters supposed to know about neutral ground between angels and demons? They didn’t usually make deals like this.

            Desperate measures in desperate times.

            Threatening prophets always worked to bring in an archangel. Except Sam didn’t have any at his disposal; come to think of it, they hadn’t heard from Chuck in years. So that was out. So was a summoning ritual—letting an angel know he was being called wouldn’t actually do any good if he knew you were summoning him to kill him. And if he was busy having unholy relations with a demon…

            Sam froze.

            Archangels, you couldn’t trick.

            Lesser demons?

            He’d just need to pull together some supplies.

 

 

            Graveyards worked pretty well for séances and summoning rituals. A lot of negative energy, spiritual hotspots. Sam found one, Hillcrest Cemetery, about a mile out of town. Drew up the symbols from—ironically—memory. Ghetto supplies like dollar-store candles and incense from a head shop whose manager had definitely been stoned, but it would do the trick.

            Sam sat back on his heels, checking the drawing he’d made with a bucket of kid’s chalk. It stood out cold and white against the bleak gray of an unused grave marker, bought up ahead of time for some poor bastard whose family wanted his affairs all in order when he finally died.

            Drawings looked good. Sam closed his eyes and pulled on the memory of that stupid chant Ruby had taught him, the same one he’d used to summon her the night hellhounds had torn Dean to shreds. When he recited it, it made him feel empty and sucked dry, more alone than ever.

            No one to watch his back. No telling what would come.

            The ritual completed, Sam cracked his eyes open, made a sweep. No signs of demons, no sulfur smell. Hanging his elbow on his knee, Sam puffed out a frustrated breath. This had been his best plan.

            “Sammy.” The singsong voice caught him off guard. “Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. What do _we_ have here?”

            He spun up onto his feet, facing the woman who stepped out from behind the gnarled, twisted trunk of a plot tree. Her short dark hair framed a face that Sam would’ve thought was beautiful—except for those pitch black eyes.

            “I thought you’d learned your lesson about calling on the damned.” The girl purred.

            “Yeah. Well, my brother’s in trouble.” Sam said stiffly, keeping his wary eyes pinned on her. “Not like I had much of a choice.”

            “That’s sweet, you going dark side for him.” When Sam didn’t answer, she pushed her lips out in a pout. “Sam, I thought you wanted to talk to me. I’m offended!”

            “I didn’t call you here to talk.” Sam replied acidly. “I want to make a deal.”

            “Oh, quick on the jump, aren’t we?” The demon laughed. “And we haven’t even _done_ anything to poor Dean—yet.”

            Sam cocked his head slightly to one side. Didn’t like the sound of that, didn’t like the icy chill of a warning inside those words. “You don’t have to be a crossroads demon to make deals, right? Or are you just a bottom-feeder?”

            The demon’s plush lips twisted. “Careful you don’t make me angry, Sam. I bite.”

            “I’ll bet you do.” Sam taunted.

            The demon glared at him for a few seconds, lip curling. Then she shook her feathery hair from her eyes. “Sorry, but no deals, Sam. Not this time. We all remember the crossroads demons, we all remember Azazel. And Lilith. And Ruby.” She rolled her eyes slightly. “ _No one_ who works with a Winchester makes it out alive. I think I’ll take my chances with ripping the skin off your brother’s bones over whatever it is you’re offering, thanks.”

            She turned around and Sam shifted toward her. “I can give Lucifer his vessel.”

            The demon froze. Staring straight ahead while Sam’s pulse quickened in his wrists and temples. One step down the slope.

            “I know Meg and Raphael want to bring him back.”

            The demon whipped her head around to glare at him. “How did you—?”

            “Kind of obvious.”

            The demon rolled her jaw with frustration. “So you’re saying you’d just _give_ yourself up to us because Dean’s in a tight spot? You’d really cave in that easily?”

            “It’s a family thing. You poor heartless demons wouldn’t understand.”

            The demon moved fast, startling Sam a little bit; she pressed him back against a Coptic cross statue, hands on his shoulders. “You’re offering an awfully loose deal, Sam. Why should I believe you?”

            “That’s the thing.” Sam craned his head away as she stretched her lips up toward his chin. “You really _shouldn’t_.”

            He elbowed her hard in the throat, dropping her gagging onto her knees, and he jumped back outside of the circle: Devil’s Trap dawn in chalk on the frozen ground, reinforced with an outer ring of salt, hidden in the tall waving cemetery grass.

            The demon climbed slowly back onto her feet, rubbing her windpipe. “Not nice, Sam. That wasn’t nice at _all_.”

            “I don’t play nice with demons.” Sam lifted his arms out in a shrug, then dropped them back at his sides. “You ready to talk to me now?”

The demon looked him up and down with hatred and condescension and then, after a few seconds, maybe a little bit of grudging respect. “If you have some sort of deal to make, I’m listening.”

            “I want to make a trade. When Raphael hands Dean over to Meg, you bring him to me. I let you off the hook, and we go our separate ways.”

            The demon blinked mistrustfully at him. “That’s it?”

            “All I want is my brother.”

            The demon’s smile flickered. “What about the Colt?”

            Sam choked on his next breath. “What.”

            “Nobody _told_ you?” The demon laughed. “Sam! That’s just sad. Your brother had the Colt with him. That pesky little gun is _all_ ours now. A little extra in the mixing pot. Can’t let angels and humans run around with a loaded firearm, someone might get hurt!”

            Sam’s mind raced, trying to figure out how this interrupted the plan. _If_ it interrupted the plan. It didn’t. Maybe. “Do we have a deal, or don’t we?”

            The demon perched her hands on her hips, tipped her head to one side and pushed her lips out again, frowning at the ground. Then she glanced up at him, finally, sideways. “What happens if I say… _no_?”

            Sam pulled a taut, angry smile. “Then I send you back to Hell.”

            “Ouch, sounds really not-fun.” She rolled her head slowly from side to side, then sighed. “All right, here’s the pits, Sam. They won’t let me get close to your brother. I mean, it’s like you said—I’m just a bottom feeder.” She grinned. “But I can tell you where the meet is going down.”

            Now it was Sam’s turn to look at her mistrustfully. “You expect me to buy that?”

            It was too easy. He’d thought he’d have to beat it out of her.

            “You’ve got the gun, Sam. Well,” The demon cocked her head. “Metaphorically. If I want to get my fine, pretty ass out of here, I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

            “No,” Sam said warily. “I guess you don’t.”

            “I’m glad we can agree on something.” The demon cocked out her hip and crossed her arms. “There’s a warehouse complex on the other side of town. Under construction. Raphael’s got your brother there. The exchange is supposed do go down in,” She checked the glittery silver watch on her slim wrist. “One hour?” She dropped her arm and looked at him. “After that, no telling _where_ your brother will end up.”

            Sam nodded slightly. “I’m not letting you out. Not until I know Dean is safe.”

            “Be a _little_ disappointed if you just took my word for it, Sam.” The demon lifted one eyebrow, then let is slide back down. “If I’m lying…well, you and that fancy Latin chant know where to find me.”

            Sam backed away, grabbing the backpack he’d used to carry the supplies out to the cemetery, and swinging it over his shoulder.

            He could feel the demon’s eyes on him all the way to the road.

 

 

            The complex wasn’t hard to find; it was the only one of its kind around the city.

            Seraph sword in the backpack, Sam slid his fingers between the slats on the chained-link fence and leaned his weight against it, staring through the swirling snow into the tangled maze of warehouses and construction vehicles inside. It was hard to get a good read on the place, especially when his focus kept sliding back to his watch; he had thirty minutes. Get in, find Dean, get the upper hand on Raphael—somehow—and get out before Meg showed up. If she wasn’t already here, casing the meeting grounds just like he was.

            Determination stabbed through Sam; wasn’t much else he could do but make his move, one step at a time. He vaulted the fence in a few long-limbed maneuvers, dropping deftly onto the far side and dashing over to a stack of cinder blocks, putting his back against the rough material, head back, breaths puffing out clouds on the cold air—before it really sank in that hiding from an archangel made about as much sense as shooting a ghost with an airsoft gun.

            There were also—judging by what he could see just from an initial sweep, leaning around the edge of the cinderblocks—probably close to twenty buildings in this complex. The demon hadn’t been specific about which one he was looking for, and going through every single one would take more than thirty minutes, easily.

            Strategy.

            Angels didn’t leave any trace like cold patches or sulfur. But Raphael wasn’t the only one he was looking for. And even archangels sometimes missed subtle things—like codes, sleight of hand.

            Someone leaving their cell-phone in their pocket.

            Sam slid the backpack off, drew the angel blade, and pulled his phone out with the other hand. He flipped through the contacts, down to Dean’s number; left the selection bar hovering over the name and headed for the first building.

            Sam reared back and kicked the door in; found himself inside a tiny guard house, one room, rusty fan mounted in the corner across from him. Sam pulled the door shut and moved on the next warehouse.

            It was exactly what he was hoping for: massive and gutted completely. Sam hit the call button and brought the phone up to his ear.

            Heard the ring on his end, but nowhere inside the building. He backed out, and kept following the hapless, hit-and-miss pattern. Four buildings, then, five. All with the kind of heavy, ringing silence inside that had Sam checking his watch over and over again while the snow piled up outside. He was running out of time.

            Warehouse number six. Sam shouldered into a mildewed, graffitied hallway with green-tinted windows casting an eerie glow down the walls. Hit the resend button.

            And heard the muffled hum of an off-key _Smoke on the Water_ ringtone.

            Splashing through puddles where the aluminum roof had leaked through, Sam followed the sound almost to the end of the hallway; found the cell-phone tossed in a corner, battered but not disabled. Which had to mean Dean had dropped it on purpose.

            Sam let out his breath in a gust, a smile tipping at his lips; up until now some part of him had believed Raphael might’ve reneged on the deal and killed Dean just to spite Meg. This was a step in the right direction; Dean had dropped him a line, literally.

            “Peanut M&M’s.” Sam muttered, pushing back up onto his feet and taking a look down the hallway; it curved away to his right, disappearing into a door marked _STAIRWELL_ in faded, all-capital white letters. Another door, on the left wall. Sam stalked down the corridor, jiggled the handle slightly, then eased the door open, swinging around the corner.

            It was empty, just a closet about ten feet deep. Sam was about to back out when the dim white glow off the blade showed him speckles of blood on the floor.

            His stomach did a nosedive. _Dean’s._ Had to be. After all these years, somehow Sam knew exactly what his brother’s blood looked like. If anyone’s blood could look different, in six billion bodies, Dean’s did. Rusted black splotches from Hell, copper-cold resolve. Same blood Sam had had on his hands from patching up bullet holes and his fingers digging through a sopping heap of torn skin.

            Sam backed out and jogged to the stairwell door, nudging it open, praying it wouldn’t make any sound. It didn’t—thank God for small favors—and Sam bounded up the stairs as quietly as he could, tucking the seraph sword against his thigh to hide the cold white glow it gave off.

            The stairway, it turned out, opened up into a thin metal catwalk that led to a control room. A cluster of computers on a platform, it was suspended over the main body of the warehouse by thick, reinforced steel cables. Sam was about to look for a way down when he noticed the scrolling black-and-white footage flickering on wall-mounted screens inside the three-walled cubicle.

            Bingo.

            Sam shuffled down the catwalk, cautious, trying to stay as quiet as possible. It took him a good two minutes to make it to the doorway; back on solid footing, he hurried for the monitors and braced his hands on the back of one the swiveling chairs, gaze switching between screens.

            A lot of empty hallways, a lot of closed-off rooms filled with discarded materials.

            A white, radiating smudge brought Sam’s eyes back to one of the screens. Head cocked, he leaned in.

            It looked like a blur of noise right smack in the middle of the picture, shifting erratically from side to side. And almost underneath it—

            Sam all but ran back out onto the catwalk, hitting the railing so hard, white knuckles gripping over it, that it shoved up under his ribs.

            Raphael was half-hidden behind one of the support columns below, dark skin blending in with the graffiti on the surface behind him. It was Sam’s first time seeing the archangel’s new vessel. It was a good ten years younger and stronger-looking than his last one, which didn’t make Sam feel any more confident about this. The archangel was facing the wall of the warehouse, angled away from Sam. Totally focused on the one door on the ground floor that Sam could see.

            Sam’s gaze moved almost against his will to the side, picking up the dark heap crumbled at Raphael’s feet.

            His fists tightened. “No.”

            Like one word could change anything. Make Sam invincible, strong enough to fight an archangel. Bring Castiel here, the only one who stood a chance. Stop the dark stain of blood spreading out from under Dean’s body.

            But Sam had one thing, the _only_ thing that mattered. He had an archangel blade, Gabriel’s. The thing Sam had sold Annalise Stetson for, bartered with a demon to get his hands on. The only thing that would bring Raphael down.

            This was suicide. He was suicidal.

            Sam grabbed the railing, jammed his boot against it and vaulted over the edge.

            The impact with the concrete floor below shot ribbons of pain up into his torso, but somehow Sam kept his balance. He straightened up, stepping forward, the sword up and out in front of him. “Raphael!”

            The archangel turned his head, slowly, pinning a frosty gaze on Sam.

            “Sam Winchester.” He said flippantly. “Why am I not surprised?”

            “Let him go.”

            “I don’t think so.” A flash of static seemed to pass between them, lifting the hairs on Sam’s arms.

            He was screwed.

            For a few seconds neither one of them moved.

            Sam finally flexed his fingers on the hilt of the sword. “Making deals with demons? That’s pretty low even for you.”

            “I have my reasons.”

            “I can’t let you use my brother as a bargaining chip against Meg.” Sam slid a few steps closer, checking Dean with a glance. Couldn’t tell if he was breathing, but that was a hell of a lot of blood.

            “Funny.” Raphael said with that stone-cold drawl. That hadn’t changed, even if his vessel had. “I don’t seem to remember asking permission from the boy with the demon blood.”

            Sam shifted his jaw. “Nice try.”

            Raphael didn’t move. “You seem to forget,” He said, tonelessly. “What will happen when you cross paths with an archangel.” His eyes fixed on Sam’s.

            It hit Sam in a tumbling blur of images: Raphael standing over him with an angel blade. The superheated metal like a fistful of raw sunlight against Sam’s skin, charring almost to the bone. The agony wasn’t a memory, it was right there in his nerve endings. Arms tucking in close to shield himself from pain that felt as immediate as his own heartbeat, Sam’s knees buckled and he started to sink.

            “If you remembered everything that was done to you,” Raphael said, strolling toward him. “You would never have come back.”

            He flicked his head to one side and an invisible choking force lifted Sam off the floor and slammed him up against the nearest support column; his grip released on the archangel blade, sending it rolling haphazard across the floor, picking up smears of blood along the way. Sam dropped back onto the floor trying to regain all the air that had been knocked from his lungs.

            “You Winchesters have interfered with the affairs of Heaven for the last time.”    

            Sam dragged up onto his elbows, feeling like someone had kicked a dent into his ribs. “Huh—hu—guh!” He hunched back down, curling an arm around his ribs.

            Raphael knelt behind him. “It wasn’t even worth it, now, was it?”

            Sam fixed his eyes on his brother.

            “ _Sam_!”

            That voice—quick, feminine, sharp—had Sam swiveling around to track it. There was a thin, spidery skittering sound as the angel blade was kicked, whirling across the floor and back into his hand. Without giving himself two seconds to think, Sam rolled over onto his back and jabbed the blade straight into Raphael’s heart.

            The archangel’s whole body convulsed like a concentrated shockwave had rocked through him from head to foot. His eyes widened, bulging out of their sockets. Sam twisted the blade in, to the hilt in Raphael’s chest.

            A bright, almost fluorescent glow burst through Raphael’s veins from the inside. His hand snapped up; the electroshock of his touch grazed Sam’s cheek, leaving parallel crusted stripes across his cheekbone. Sam’s howl of pain was lost in Raphael’s cry as a vivid flash engulfed him, dismissing his essence.

            Silence filled in the empty cracks of the warehouse, and Sam, trembling slightly, looked toward the back of the building.

            No one there.

            Someone calling out to him, kicking the angel blade back into his hands—he was pretty sure he hadn’t imagined it. Except there was no one _there_.

            An archangel. He’d killed…an _archangel_.    

            Sam didn’t feel anything; not shock, not disbelief, just the pain in his cheek, the uncertainty about who had helped him, and—

            Swiping the blood away from his blistering skin, Sam staggered across the slippery cold floor, tumbling to his knees at his brother’s side.

Dean was curled away from Sam, body bent awkwardly, eyes closed. There was a dirty rag crammed into his mouth and his arms were laced together behind his back with wire so tight Sam could see it inching deeper into the raw, swollen skin. His legs tied up at the ankles, arms pinioned behind his back. And a huge monster lump the size of Texas on the side of his head, a cut right in the center oozing a thin stream of blood.

Sam worried the rag loose first, cut the cords from Dean’s hands with the archangel blade, then tried to assess the worst of the injuries, the way their dad had always taught them: figure out what you’re dealing with. The majority of the blood flow seemed to be coming from three parallel gashes on Dean’s chest; not fatal, but a harsh, angry red and singed on the edges. Sam pulled Dean’s blood-slicked head onto his knees, shrugged his jacket off, wadded it up and pressed it against the tattered remains of Dean’s t-shirt.

He sat like that for minutes. Barely breathing, feeling the blood slowly soaking the fabric under his hand, watching Dean’s bloodless, shallow features.

            Sam didn’t realize there were tears on his eyes until their saltiness started to sting the wounds on his cheek.

            _I did this to him_.

            “Dean?” His voice broke slightly; he tugged a hand back through Dean’s hair, giving his head a small shake. “Hey, c’mon, man. Dean.”

            No response. A little more frantic this time, Sam shifted Dean, supporting his brother with one arm, grabbing the front of his jacket in his free hand and jostling him lightly. “Dean! Dean, hey, hey. I know you can hear me. You need to wake up. _Dean_.”

            For a few seconds Sam thought his efforts weren’t going to be worth much. Then Dean’s whole body contracted; his diaphragm spasmed and he coughed, bringing a spew of blood to his lips. Relief made Sam dizzy. He shifted them both again.

            “All right, take it easy, just take it easy.” He said, using his wrist to wipe the blood off of Dean’s face. “I’m right here, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

            “Raphael.” Dean said thickly; he remembered that much, at least.

            “He’s dead.” Sam said, hollowly, the words finalizing the deed. “I killed him.”

            Dean’s eyes finally opened, a thin sliver of green-and-white under his lashes. He looked up with his eyes scrunched and that same stupid little ‘hi there’ smile Sam had known his whole life—except for the past few days. “Oh, hey, Sammy.” He said, eyes sliding shut, head rolling back down. “You found me.”

“You’re damn right, I did.”

“Ganked the son of a bitch.” He muttered. “Proud’a you, Sam.”

            “I guess I had some help.” Sam said honestly. Dean didn’t answer, head going limp on Sam’s wrist. Sam shook him. “No, no, no. Dean. Dean! Stay with me, man.”

            Dean’s eyes flipped open. He looked at Sam with a sideways smile. “Hey. You remember my name.” When Sam just gave him a strained, wet-eyed half-smile, Dean relaxed. “Welcome back, Sammy.”

Sam didn’t like the way Dean kept closing his eyes. “Hey! You can’t sleep, Dean. Not yet. I gotta get you out of here.” He tried to sit up, tried to sit Dean up, but Dean might as well have been a wet dishrag for all the distance Sam got with him. He ended up slumped against the pillar with Dean sprawled awkwardly across his knees.

“Guess we’re waiting, then.” Sam said, flicking his hair out of his eyes and leaning his head back against the support column. Resting was fine; but he couldn’t let Dean go back to sleep. Keeping one hand pressed against his brother’s chest to staunch the blood flow, Sam started talking. “Dean? Tell me something.”

“Tell you what?” Dean mumbled.

Sam grabbed onto the first thing that crossed his mind. “What’s your favorite kind of pie?”

“C’mon, Sam.” Dean complained, sounding a little stronger. “I’m not gonna kick the bucket right now. I’m just tired.”

“Dean. Pie?”

Dean snarled out a sigh. “Apple, okay? You happy?”

Sam half-smiled. “Not quite.” Checked Dean’s wound again; freed of a lot of the blood it looked similar to the gashes on Sam’s face. He wasn’t sure he wanted to move Dean this soon after, and this badly injured, but he didn’t have a choice. Not without knowing what was lurking nearby.

“We gotta move.” He said reluctantly.

“You point and I’ll walk, Sam.” Dean said. “Now get these things offa me.”

            “Yeah, just…give me a second.” Sam lowered Dean gently to the floor, grabbed the archangel blade and slit the cords around Dean’s ankles. Dean stripped the wires off with unexpected energy. Then he hunched onto his feet, bearing his weight awkwardly on one ankle, grabbed Sam’s arm and pulled him up, too.

            And pulled Sam into a hug so tight it crushed the breath out of him.

Sam froze. Dean hugging, Dean showing any big emotional display usually meant something was seriously wrong.

“Dean?” Sam said; softly, cautiously. His brother didn’t answer, just shifted slightly, breath hot on Sam’s shoulder, hands scrunching into fists around the back of Sam’s shirt. Sam’s eyes slid shut, and he dropped his chin onto Dean’s shoulder.

They stayed like that for a minute; Sam not able to believe he’d forgotten what it meant to be home like this. Dean probably thinking he’d regret this for the rest of his life.

Dean pulled back first, smacking Sam lightly on the chest with the back of his hand. “You went behind my back, huh?”

            Sam smiled sheepishly. “Cass helped.”

            “Yeah, Bobby told me.” Dean shook his head. “Dammit, Sam.”

            “You sure you’re okay?” Sam asked, changing the subject. “You look like you went twelve rounds with a meet tenderizer.”

            “Dude, I’m awesome. Let’s shag ass before Raphael decides to drop back in and smite us.” Dean turned for the door and almost buckled back down onto the floor. “Ah! Son of a bitch, my friggin’ ankle.”

            “Here.” Sam grabbed Dean’s arm and slung it over his shoulders.

            “Stow the touchy-feely crap, Deanna Troi.”

            “What does that make you? Worf?”

            “Oh, God, I hope not.” Dean said, shifty eyes and swallowing hard. Sam laughed, but it felt strained. With every second Dean was getting his cognition back, they were one step closer to the confrontation Sam never wanted to have: the moment when he’d have to explain to Dean how he’d betrayed him.

            Probably a better idea to just get it over with.

            Sam cleared his throat. “Listen, Dean, I—”

            “It can wait.” Dean said. Sam cut him a look and Dean kept his gaze sweeping the warehouse, avoiding Sam’s eyes. “Right, Sam?”

            His eyebrows pulled together. “Yeah.”

            They were almost to the door when Dean yanked his arm back, hopping awkwardly sideways, barely putting any weight on his injured leg. “I got this.”

            He hobbled toward the door and Sam watched him go, feeling a tugging, needling sadness in his chest. Dean had known what Sam was going to bring up. And it was already driving a wedge between them.

            Head hanging, rubbing the side of his neck, Sam stepped after him.

            Stopped.

            Something didn’t feel right. Something up under his skin, racing up the back of his neck, lodging in his brain. A weird smell, a feeling like there were eyes on them from all sides. And that ringing pain back in the side of his head.

            “Dean.” He said shallowly, so quietly Dean didn’t even seem to hear him. And then, the only other thing he could manage: “H-Help.”

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

_March 10 th, 2012_

_Warehouse Complex outside of Arco, Idaho_

 

            “Dean. _Help_.”

            Dean was keeping his back to Sam, trying to walk straight with fire burning through his chest, so dizzy he couldn’t see straight, and his ankle throbbing. Keeping his gaze straight forward so Sam wouldn’t see the uncertainty that was tearing Dean in two.

            And then this: his brother’s voice without any of the humor or relief. Not flat, either. Small. Ten-years-old small.

            Dean yanked around to face him.

            Sam was staring at him. Right at him. Maybe even _through_ him. Same way he always did when he was listening really, really hard for whatever they were hunting to start bumping around.

            “Sam?” Dean said cautiously. “You with me?”

            Sam just kept staring at him. Dean frowned, snapping his fingers. “Hey! You _with_ me, Sam?” Staring. “Sam! _Answer_ me!”

            Sam’s eyes flicked, drooping shut. He crumbled.

            “Whoa!” Dean  hopped over to him, crouching down, keeping his hurt ankle free of his weight. “Sam—Sammy! Hey, hey, hey!” He slid a hand behind Sam’s shaggy head and lifted it. “Dude, I’m supposed to be the hurt one, you’re supposed to be playing nursemaid. Sam!”

            Dean heard a floating, breezy laugh that stood up the hair on the back of his neck. “Well, I was hoping for some kind of show, but this? This is just _priceless_.”

            Dean knew that whiny, thick accent anywhere. Still supporting Sam’s head, he looked over his shoulder.

            Meg leaned against the wall of the warehouse, thumbs hooked into her belt loops, grinning at him. “Boy, Deano, you don’t look so good.”

            “Oh, look. It’s the classic bitch. I’m so happy to see you, I could rip your face off.” Dean grunted. “What the hell’d you do to my brother?”

            “Me?” Meg pressed a flat hand against her chest. “I didn’t do _anything_ , Dean. This is the price Sam paid to see you safe.” She laughed. “You both played your parts to the _letter_. I’m demanding an encore, here!”

            “What d’you mean? What price?” Dean demanded. “Meg!”

            “Sorry, but our steamy, complicated relationship never really has been the sharing type. You got what you wanted, you sent my brothers back to Hell. And you know how I feel about that place. But now?” She shook her head. “Now I got what _I_ wanted.”

            “Me.” Dean said.

            “Oh, don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart! This was never about you. Well, I mean, it would’ve been fun, sure. Using you as bait to draw Clarence out, make him slip up. He always did have a soft spot for you Winchester boys. But every story’s got two angles, right?” Meg leaned away from the wall, pulling something long, thin and white from behind her back.

            Dean stiffened. _Archangel_ _blade._

“Turns out raw soul powers don’t just work against angels! Works on some monsters, too.” Meg grinned. “And it just so happens we’ve got some monster-on-monster violence going down, right…now.” She waved the sword tantalizingly. “And I’ve got a friend who’s just _dying_ for a little something like this.”

“What’re you in bed with the Rakshasa or something?”

“Not everything’s that _black and white_ , Deano.” Meg shrugged. “It’s messy, sure. But the way I see it? We’re all just moving toward one big goal.”

            “Yeah? What’s that?”

            “American Idol, Dean! Survivor. The strongest link. Angels want it, demons want it, monsters want it. Everyone wants to use Planet Earth as a playground. All those ripe little souls to fool around with. You pitiful little humans just don’t get a say.” She pushed her lips out in a pout. “Well, we got Sam here, we got the blade. I think that’s all, folks!”

            “You’re a whole new breed of douchebag, you know that?”

            “Funny, your daddy used to tell me the _same_ thing.” Meg backed toward the door. “Let’s see how much good you can do without your sword or your pretty, pretty gun.”

            Dean lurched to his feet as Meg bolted through the swinging door, letting in a scattered burst of snow.  He took two steps after her when a soft, disoriented moan made him stop and look back.

            Sam was coming around; head shifting, eyes squinted shut, probably feeling the cold concrete leeching the warmth right out of him. And Dean didn’t know which way to go: archangel blade, their weapon against Raphael. And the Colt. _Meg_. Or go back, help Sam, make sure he was okay.

            “Son of a bitch.” Dean dragged his hands back through his hair, then backed up, keeping his eyes on that door. Crouched beside Sam, his hand finding his brother’s shoulder. “Right here, Sammy. I’m here.”

            Sam’s head rocked slightly and he groaned, shoving the back of his hand against his eyes. Then he blinked drowsily, gaze finding Dean’s face. “Hey.”

            “Hey.” Dean echoed flatly, finally looking down at him. “You just went out the back door for five minutes and all you can say is ‘ _hey_ ’?”

            “Went out the…what?”

            “Unbelievable.” Dean muttered, grabbing Sam’s arm and sitting him up. “You wanna tell me what just happened?”

            Sam blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

            “What do I mean? I mean you were giving me the _I-See-Dead-People_ look and then you just _dropped_.”

            “Oh.”

            “ _Oh_? Sam, what the hell did you _do_?”

            “I don’t,” Sam swept a confused glance around the warehouse. “Dean, I don’t know what happened. What are you talking about?”

            Then he pitched forward and threw up.

            “Geeze!” Dean jerked back to avoid the wet, putrid spray. Sam coughed, gagged, hacked up some more, a pained groan sliding free of his lips. Dean grabbed his brother’s collar and sat him back. “Sam. Look at me. Sammy! Did you make some kinda deal?”

            “What?” Sam slurred, eyes sliding out of focus.

            “Hey!” Dean slapped Sam’s check, gently. “None of that, little brother. I need you with me, I need you to _focus_. Did you make a deal to get your memories back?”

            “No deals.” Sam said. “Cass.”

            Dean didn’t know why, but he believed him. Maybe he was sick of taking a demon’s word for things. “All right. Come on, we gotta get out of here.” He pulled Sam up; Sam vomited again, barely missing Dean’s arm, and slumped full-body against him.

            “My head feels like it’s on fire.” He moaned.

            “Dammit, don’t do this to me now.” Dean gave Sam’s arm a tug. “Let’s move!”

 

 

            Sam’s vague line-of-sight directions got them as far as the impound lot a mile from the warehouse. By that point Dean’s chest and ankle were giving him hell and Sam was barely keeping a straight line. He kept throwing up, and complained about being too dizzy to see anything; and Dean knew for a fact that that was never a good sign.

            He made Sam sit on the curb with his head between his knees while Dean slipped the chain on the impound door and found his baby. She was in good condition other than a scratch on her bumper; and at this point he had bigger things to worry about. Dean hotwired her in two minutes and gunned the engine, spraying cheap gravel and snow from under the tires, flying back toward the gate. The Impala burst through in a storm of white powder and Dean leaned across the seat, throwing the shotgun door wide. “Get in.”

            Sam scrambled inside, banged the door shut and sat back, thumping against the headrest. “What’s happening to me, Dean?”

            “I dunno.” Dean curled an arm around his chest; all that walking had ripped open the cobweb scabs and blood was starting to soak into his crusty shirt again. “But we’ll fix this, all right? We’re gonna fix this.”

            “I keep seeing—” Sam broke off with a thready whimper of agony, curling one arm against the window and slumping his head down.

            “Keep seeing what?” Dean prodded a little bit.

            “Hell.”

            Dean could barely hear that one word, but it said everything: fire and brimstone, sulfur and screams. Clawed, dying hands ripping into you while the souls tried to scramble over you toward daylight. He gripped the steering wheel tighter.

            “Your turn to stay with me, Sam. Keep your eyes open.”

            A shudder passed from the top of Sam’s scruffy head right down his gangly legs. Dean reached over and cranked on the radio, more for his benefit than for Sam’s. He needed the music to keep him sharp. Sixteen hours to Bobby’s.

            Dean didn’t let Sam sleep for the first nine hours of the drive. Talked him through his memories; Sam’s replies were always stilted, short and sometimes awkward so it took Dean a second to figure out what he was actually saying. He had a feeling the wheels in Sam’s brain were grinding backwards. And he’d break off every five or ten minutes with that same distant, confused look, then shake himself back to reality when Dean started stomping on his foot.

            It was after midnight when Dean finally decided enough was enough; they’d crossed the line from discomfort to suffering an hour ago and Sam’s responses were just grunts and those whimpering sounds like someone was squeezing his lungs like a stress ball. So Dean cranked on Zeppelin, stopped asking questions and let Sam sleep.

            And gave himself time to think.

            He’d been stupid. Right from the second he’d talked to Sam, heard it was Raphael on his trail, he’d known he was screwed seven ways from Saturday. Hadn’t brought Holy Oil, didn’t have time to draw sigils.

            Now, all of it—demons, omens—made sense. Not lightning storms from demonic activity. _Raphael_. That dickless coward had captured Sam, used him to bait Dean out to Arco, to grab him for Meg. Meg, who’d wanted Dean so Sam would come, and bring the archangel blade so she could give it to _Mohera_. Whatever the hell _that_ was, Dean had never heard of it.

And Dean and Sam had both tap-danced right into the spotlight and played the parts both sides wanted them playing. Raphael striking deals with demons, who wanted to use him to get the Colt and the archangel blade—and no telling what s greedy monster could do with that thing. Kill Raphael. Kill Castiel. It was like giving a kid a chainsaw.

            At least now they knew what they’d let out of Purgatory. They had a name, so Bobby could start digging.

            So in a way this whole thing kinda cleared the air.

            There was just one problem, one thing that kept repeating to him in the fuzzy semi-quiet of the front seat with the Zeppelin tape in the deck and Sam’s restless twitching and labored breathing beside him.

            His brother had somehow sold him out to Raphael.

            The part they were both avoiding. The part that Sam’s fit, whatever the hell it was, had given him a decent excuse to avoid. Sam had done something that had made him look at Dean like he’d never forgive himself. Sam hadn’t given him that Oh-My-God-What-Have-I-Done look since he’d let Lucifer out of the cage.

            There was also the small problem of Sam going behind his back, putting himself through the ringer to get his memories back, and now he was flopped over against the shotgun door looking like some half-drowned piece of lint. Dean seriously doubted his brother could’ve fought off a kitten at this point.

            All because Sam just _had_ to know what was waiting in the rubble of that wall.

And now they’d lost the Colt andthe archangel blade.

Dean struck the steering wheel hard with the flat of his hand, swearing under his breath.

“Dean?” Sam’s weak voice was almost lost in the hum of the heat and the rattle from the vents. He picked his head up from the window, breathing ragged, eyes reflecting streetlights phasing past the windows. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Dean couldn’t even look at him. “Just go back to sleep.”

Sam didn’t budge. “Are you mad?”

            Dean glanced at him quickly sideways, made the decision right there, and clapped Sam on the knee. “I’ll worry about being mad once we’ve got you back to Bobby’s.”

            Sam’s staccato breaths put Dean on edge. “Dean,” He mumbled. “I’m so, so sorry. I’m sorry for everything I—”

            “Hey. Enough.” Dean kept his eyes out the windshield. “Playing the confession game isn’t gonna help either of us, Sam. Get some sleep.” He looked over at Sam again, meeting his brother’s red-rimmed, hollow gaze. “I’m serious.”

            “Can’t sleep anymore.” Sam said quietly. “I’m afraid of where I’ll wake up.”

            Dean knew that feeling, because he’d done a tour of Hell, too. Hell dreams, they weren’t just dreams, they were so vivid it sometimes felt like you were right back in it. You’d go to sleep in a bed and wake up on the rack and be so damned _sure_ you’d somehow slipped back under. Hell was always just a couple steps behind.

            “Yeah, I feel ya.” Dean said lamely.

            Sam sat up, squinting, and shook his head slightly. “Huh.”

            “What?” Dean was on the alert, looking quickly over at him again. “Sam?”

            “I feel okay.” Sam said, sounding surprised. “I mean…headache’s still there. I’m still dizzy. But whatever that was, I think it’s over.”

            “Yeah, well, good for you.”

            Sam laced his fingers together and stretched his arms out over the dashboard, looking at Dean sideways. Then he dropped his arms, twisting around on the seat. “Dean.” His gaze was pinned on Dean’s arm, tight around his midsection.

            “Forget about it.” Dean said stiffly.

            “Forget about—Dean, you look like you got attacked by Edward Scissorhands.”

            “Why am I not surprised you’re a Tim Burton fan?”

            Sam shot him a bitchfaced look, then slid a little closer. “Pull over.”

            “Aw, c’mon, Sam, we’re like six hours out. I can make it.”

            “Not if you bleed out. Dean! Pull over!”

            One glance showed Dean that Sam wasn’t messing around. He wondered how many times on this crazy case their roles were going to keep reversing, and then he guided the Impala smoothly to the shoulder of the road and killed the engine.

            “All right, you pain in the ass, do whatever it is you’re gonna do.”

            Sam braced his back against the dashboard, the steering wheel digging up under his right arm, and pulled Dean’s jacket open. He parted the shredded pieces of the shirt and stared at the wounds beneath.

            Kept staring.

            Kept staring.

            “Sam?” Dean prompted. “Sam! Hey!” He waved a hand in front of Sam’s face and Sam leaned back suddenly.

            “What?”

            “You done zoning out?”

            “I’m not zoning out, Dean. Here,” Sam reached under the front seat and pulled out the first-aid kit. “Give me five minutes to patch you up, all right?”

            Dean sighed dramatically and leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling of the car. “Four fifty-nine, four fifty-eight…”

            “Shut up.” Sam said absently, opening the first aid kit. He frowned, staring at the contents for a minute, long fingers soundlessly shuffling everything around. Then he shook his head, pulled out the bottle of antiseptic. He poured some of it on a pad of gauze and gently swiped around the edges of Dean’s wounds.

            Stung like a bitch.

            “Ow! Stop butchering me, you jackass.” Dean complained.

            “Don’t be such a lightweight, Dean.” Sam chided. He tackled the surface of the wounds next, not just dabbing at the periphery, and that hurt worse. Sucking in his bottom lip, teeth grinding down, Dean looked out the window. He was so used to paying zero attention to his wounds, or patching them up himself—and okay, maybe he went a little easy on it when he had to do his own stitching. Sam was a merciless sadist.

            And pretty quiet, too. Usually he kept up a running commentary to distract Dean: popping dislocations backs into place, sewing gashes shut, splinting broken bones. Sam was a regular motor-mouth through every medical situation.

            Not this time, though. Breathing steady but jaw tight, Sam worked in silence.

            And that made the pain worse; Dean hadn’t noticed how much Sam’s talking usually distracted him, took the edge off the pain. 

            “Somethin’ on your mind, Sammy?” He asked tautly, still staring out the window. The blackness on the other side reflected his stricken, tired face back at him.

            “Just thinking.” Sam murmured.

            “Yeah, I figured that part out. What’s up?” Dean was praying it wouldn’t be some huge apology speech. He couldn’t handle that right now.

            “The things I remember.” Sam’s tongue poked out a little as he grabbed the medical tape and gauze pads and pressed them down gently around Dean’s wounds. “The fight before I left for Stanford. The stuff I did when I was soulless. The demon blood.”

            Every memory like a kick to Dean’s chest. “Yeah, so?”

            “So?” Sam cut him a disbelieving look. “So, I hurt people, Dean. I hurt a _lot_ of people. Everything I’ve done? To you, to dad, to Bobby? How can you still look at me after what I did to you?”

            Dean’s throat felt like it was squeezing shut. His gaze slanted down, away from Sam’s. “Sammy, you’re my brother, y’know, you’re family. I mean, we stopped the freakin’ Apocalypse together, man.” He chuckled dryly. “Can’t just walk away from that. Dad knew it, Bobby knows it. I know it.”

            Sam nodded but he didn’t look convinced. “Whatever’s happening to me now,” He put the last strip of tape down on Dean’s skin. “I deserve it.”

            It took a second for that to sink in for Dean, while Sam twisted back around and leaned against the door, pressing his knuckles to his mouth.

            “Hey!” Dean snapped, and Sam looked at him with his eyebrows up, obviously surprised. “Don’t pull that crap with me, Sam. This isn’t on you. Something’s wrong and we’re gonna find out what it is. Okay?”

            “Okay.” Sam parroted back.

            The whole conversation made for a hell of a strained car ride afterwards.

 

           

            Dean padded back downstairs in nothing but jeans and socks, hair still damp, bandages sopping off.

They’d showed up just before sunrise, scruffy and totally drained, on Bobby’s snow-covered porch. The first thing he’d wanted after grabbing five quick hours of sleep in Bobby’s bed—since Bobby wouldn’t let him take the panic room and Dean wouldn’t force Sam to sleep down there—was a chance to wash off the blood. He’d felt stale and pretty dirty even for a hunter, and he wasn’t surprised when he passed Bobby throwing an armful of sheets into the wash. Dried blood flecked off easy when you were tossing and turning in your sleep.

“Well, you don’t exactly smell like a bed’a roses, but it’s an improvement.” Bobby snarked when Dean stopped behind him. “Put on a shirt, would ya?”

“Well, I would. But all my clothes are beat to hell or in your laundry basket.”

“Here.” Sam’s voice startled Dean; he turned around and caught the shirt Sam chucked at his head.

“Thanks.” Dean pulled it on; the thing was about five sizes too big. Made Dean feel like a little kid dressing up in his dad’s clothes. “You okay?”

“Yeah, actually, I am. I feel great.” Sam leaned against the doorpost. “Your bandages are falling off.”

“I’ll get to ’em.” Bobby huffed, throwing the last sheet in and banging the washer lid shut. “In the kitchen, both of you.”

They trailed behind him, accepting the dried jerky and corn chips he shoved at them without complaint. Dean let Bobby patch him up while Sam gave him the Cliff Notes on the deal in Arco. Told them both how he’d summoned a demon, which Dean figured had all been part of Meg’s plan. Lead Sam to the warehouse, get him to take out Raphael, then kill him and steal the blade. There were a lot of loose ends Sam didn’t tie up, but then again there were just some things that had to stay between them.

“Sounds like those sons of bitches took you boys for a ride.” Bobby said with a little rough sympathy, tying off the corset of bandages around Dean’s gashed middle. “Sam, lemee take a look at that cheek.” He stretched out a hand and Sam pulled back sharply, bracing one hand on the edge of the table. Dean glanced up at him, going still; waiting.

“Uh, it’s fine.” Sam said, reluctantly meeting Bobby’s gaze with that embarrassed smile that he usually got when someone was doting on him. “I swear.”

“Let the man play Dempsey, Sam, or he’ll take it out on me.”

Sam gave him a frustrated look, then submitted, letting Bobby skim the pad of this thumb across the gashes. Sam pulled away a little bit when Bobby touched the edge.

“Yep, he got you good.” Bobby straightened up. “I’ll take care of that, just—”

Something thumped hard in the study; Dean twisted around in his chair to look.

Castiel brushed snow off of his shoulders. “I see you found your way home.”

“Cass!” Sam sounded like he’d gotten a load taken off. “What happened?”

“Many things happened. Raphael’s followers had me…outnumbered, at best. But Ciel brought enough reinforcements to obliterate their line of defense. I came to the warehouse as quickly as I could, but all traces of Raphael had vanished by the time I arrived. It seems you managed to do the impossible.”

“Dude. Monologue. Jaws of death. Archangel sword. _Bam_.” Dean shook his head and whistled lowly. “Awesome.”

“He was unconscious for the whole thing.” Sam supplied, ripping a strip of jerky in half and gnawing off the end.

Castiel smiled slightly, joining them in the kitchen. “Well, I’m glad you’re both all right. And Sam, I’m impressed that you held your own against Raphael. You,” He paused. “You don’t understand what this means to me.”

Sam’s eyebrows pulled together with that familiar confused, unhappy look at that got right up under Dean’s skin. “Yeah. Thanks.”

A kind of awkward pause filtered in. Then Dean cleared his throat.

“So, we forgot to tell you the best part. We’re on our way out the door? Sam drops like a rock. Few hours later, he bounces back.”

“Dean.” Sam began warningly.

“When were you gonna mention _that_?” Bobby demanded.

“What were his symptoms?” Castiel cut him off with so much intensity all Bobby did was roll his eyes. “What were they _exactly_ , Dean?”

“Uh, I dunno. Vomiting? You said you were pretty dizzy, right?” He added toward Sam. Sam nodded mutely. “Dizzy, harffing all over the place…” He trailed off at Castiel’s squinty expression. “Cass, _what_?”

“Sam, come with me.” Castiel turned and walked into the study without waiting up. Shoving his chair back from the table, Sam got up and followed him, and Dean and Bobby were two steps behind.

Castiel stopped by the couch, gesturing for Sam to sit. He did, quickly, looked like a kid in trouble with a teacher. Castiel stood over him and rested one hand on Sam’s forehead, closing his eyes.

Stayed like that for a minute, until Sam’s eyes closed, too. When Castiel dropped his arm to his side, Sam sank against the back of the couch, pale.

“The hell was that all about?” Dean asked fiercely.

“Sam.” Castiel’s mouth tugged down at the corners. “You’ve suffered a cerebral infarction.”

Dean blinked. “English?”

“He means a stroke.” Sam said quietly, gaze darting back and forth across the floor, head slumping slightly.

“Brought on no doubt by the stress of searching for your lost memories.” Castiel said, lips pressing thin.

“And you let him _do_ that?” Dean snapped. “You put him under deep enough to give him a _stroke_?”

“Dean—” Castiel began.

“What the hell! I told you two to take _care_ of Sam, not give him a brain hemorrhage!”

“Dean.” Sam said quietly. “Enough.”

“I didn’t know it would happen like this, Dean.” Castiel said earnestly. “We all knew the risks, but this was not an outcome I would have predicted or wished on your brother. Believe me, I know the ramifications.”

Dean wasn’t sure of much, but he was pretty sure Castiel was telling the truth. He swiped a hand down his face, realized he needed to shave and filed that under things that would be important some other time. “Okay, so…so he had a stroke. I got that. But he’s fine now, right?”

Castiel swallowed, throat constricting visibly. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”

“What do you mean, _not that simple_?” Dean flung out an arm toward Sam and didn’t miss the way his brother flinched. “Look at him, Cass! He look normal to you? ’Cause he looks _fine_ to me.”

“For the moment, yes. He is normal. However.” Castiel paused, meeting Sam’s eyes when they finally swung up toward him. “Sam. The stroke caused damage to your left temporal lobe. The affected area would suggest you may suffer from a condition called petit mal seizures from now on.”

“Petit mal—?” Sam’s face scrunched. “Absence seizures?”

Castiel nodded. “A detachment of the mind from reality. It can last anywhere from thirty seconds to a full minute and may strike at any time.”

Sam blanched.

“Wait, wait, you lost me.” Dean butted in. “So these seizures—are we talking about a rolling on the floor, foaming at the mouth deal, or what?”

“No.” Castiel shook his head. “Absence seizures manifest in several different ways. You might call it…short circuiting. A person experiencing this type of seizure will seem to drop without warning from a state of reality into a state of conscious inertia. When they come around, there’s usually some temporary memory loss and rarely any awareness that a seizure has even occurred.”

“Balls,” Bobby muttered under his breath. He’d been so quiet, taking it all in, that Dean had almost forgotten Bobby was standing right there behind him.

“I must be missing something, because this sounds like a good thing to me.” Dean spread his arms in a wide shrug. “I mean, it’s better than the foaming at the mouth kind, right?” When Castiel looked down, Dean felt the first cold chill rake his spine. “ _Cass_!”

“Dean.” Sam said, staring down at his hands. “What if I have a seizure while I’m driving?”

No-brainer. “I do all the driving, Sam.”

“Fair enough.” Sam nodded slightly. “What about when I’m watching your back? When I’m protecting someone?”

Castiel seemed to be on the same wavelength. “There’s no predicting when one of these fits will strike him, or how severe it will be. For Sam…I would guess the seizures aren’t just an absence from reality.”

Sam stared up at him. “The flashbacks to Hell that I’m still getting?”

Castiel nodded wordlessly.

Sam shoved his hair back with both hands, face suddenly grim, with that solid expression he always got when he was planning something crazy. Jumping-in-the-pit, crazy. “That’s it, then.”

“That’s what?” Dean demanded, feeling like he was constantly a step behind Sam and Castiel on this one.

Sam looked up and met Dean’s eyes. “I can’t be a hunter anymore.”

 


	12. Chapter 12

_March 11 th, 2012_

_Singer Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, South Dakota_

“It’s not like I have a choice.”

            Sam tacked that on to his declaration when Dean and Bobby just stared at him. And after a few more seconds, kept staring. Their faces looked so alike, Sam found himself laughing slightly, just once, mouth quirking up sideways. “Say something, guys.”

            “This is bullcrap, that’s what I’m saying.” Dean exploded like he’d been waiting for a cue. “Sam, it’s just a freaking _seizure_ , all right, you can get over it!”

            “I don’t think so.” Sam said softly. “Not without putting you in danger.” He shrugged slightly. “That’s just not something I want to gamble with, Dean.”

            “Well, screw you. I’m an adult, I can make my own bets.”

            “Dean,” Bobby said carefully, like he was sticking his hand in an alligator’s jaws. “Sam may be right on this one.”

            Dean snapped his head around, pinning the world’s biggest glare on Bobby, who just widened his eyes and lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug. Sam let out a long, silent breath; at least Bobby got it.

            “You two.” Dean pointed from Castiel to Bobby, completely ignoring Sam. “You never shoulda let him try this.”

            “Hey!” Sam snapped, his patience caving. “You’re not the only one who can make his own decisions, Dean!”

            “You didn’t have any memories, Sam, it doesn’t count!”

            “The hell it _doesn’t_!”

            “I wanna know why _you_ did it. Huh?” Dean zeroed in on Castiel and the angel met his anger with grim silence. “Why’d you agree to the brainrape session? Cass?”

            Castiel looked away for a second, then met Dean’s gaze again. “Because Sam is my friend. I couldn’t leave him the way he was. Broken. Vulnerable. I couldn’t have done it any more than you could.”

            “Dean. It doesn’t matter.” Sam said quietly. “We can’t change this, all right? It’s done. It’s not Castiel’s fault.”

            Dean swung desperate eyes on him, and Sam realized that Dean just wanted to blame something, blame _anything_. And he was probably one step away from blaming himself.

            “Cass.” Sam didn’t drop Dean’s gaze for even a second. “Could you give us a second? I want to talk to my brother and Bobby alone.”

            Castiel dipped his head. “As you wish.”

            He vanished in a split-second, leaving the three men in a rigid, tense silence.

            Sam finally looked away, nodding slightly. “All right. We can still make this work. Just because I can’t hunt—”

            “Stop sayin’ that!” Dean interrupted.

            Sam shot him a look and continued: “Doesn’t mean I can’t help out, right?”

            “Sure, kid.” Bobby said. “I’ll keep you around my place. You can help me hit the books. Lord knows I need the help, this place is turnin’ into a pigsty.”

            Trade in his guns for books again, leave the dingy motel rooms behind him and have a permanent place to stay. Out of harm’s way but with his hand still in the mixing bowl, still able to help. Wasn’t ideal, wasn’t even what he wanted; but it was better than nothing, if he was going to have unexpected blackouts.

            “Thanks, Bobby.” Sam said with sincere gratitude. Bobby didn’t meet his gaze, just nodded roughly.

            “So, you two are just gonna lie down and take this one?” Dean demanded. “You’re not gonna try and find some kinda cure?”

            “Dean, we’re not gonna hunt down some kind of witch doctor to fix this. It’s not killing me and I don’t want to go around making pacts with…God-knows-what.”

            “Never stopped us before.” Dean said wryly, pacing to the other side of the room, ripping his hands back through his hair. “If you’re staying, then I’m staying.”

            “ _What_?” Sam shifted forward to the edge of the couch. “Dean, no! You can’t just call it quits on hunting! We need you, out _there_. Fighting, the way dad taught us.”

            “Don’t bring dad into this.”

            “What do you want me to say?” Sam shoved his hair back with one hand again. “Dean, this is it. I’m done. I’m sick, I can’t be out there, watching your back. That doesn’t mean you have to give up, too.”

            “I am _not_ just gonna leave you here, Sam!” Dean spun back around to face him.

            “This isn’t Rivergrove, Dean. I’m not asking you to put a bullet in my head or leave me behind to turn into some kind of monster. This is Bobby. I’ll be right here waiting, every time you come back.”

            Dean looked at him from the corners of his eyes and Sam didn’t miss the incandescent flash in his glance. Something was breaking, right now, in between them. All Sam needed to do was push, and Dean would let it go.

            He hoped.

            “Dean. You need to get back out there. You have to stop Meg.” He took a deep breath and flicked his hair back out of his eyes. “You have to get that archangel blade.” Face scrunching, he added, “You should’ve just gone after her in the first place.”

            It was a hard shove in the wrong direction. Dean’s entire face hardened.

            “Oh, great plan, Napoleon. We coulda just chased the bitch down and grabbed it from her in the warehouse. Why didn’t we?” He rubbed his jaw, the motion sharp and quick, furious. “Oh, right. ’Cause you were too busy playing hooky-from-reality in the middle of the floor! C’mon, Sam, you think I was just gonna _leave_ you there?”

            Sam’s anger banked up unexpectedly to meet his brother’s. “Exactly! That’s _exactly_ what you should’ve done!  Meg had the sword, Dean, and you should’ve gone after her!”

“And _you_ shoulda stayed put at Bobby’s! You brought the damn thing right to them, Sam!”

“Of course I did. It was my fault, Dean, I had to fix this.”

“You had to fix—” Dean broke off with a disbelieving burst of laughter. “Great. So, so now we lost the only weapon we had against Raphael. Because you _had_ to fix this.” Dean’s tongue swiped his bottom lip. “You let that demon talk you into it, Sam, you walked right into their trap!”

            “Yeah? I thought Raphael was going to _kill you_ , Dean! And if it was you, in my shoes? You would’ve done the same thing!”

            “No, I woulda stepped _back_ , I woulda had some kinda fallback! This was ten kinds of crazy, even for _you_.”

            “That’s total crap. If it was me, you would’ve _traded_ the sword. _Willingly_!”

            “Oh, don’t tell me this is one of those sell-your-souls thing, I thought we were done with this!” Dean snarled.

            “It’s never over, Dean. Not as long as both of us are in the ring, swinging.”

            “All right, enough, both’a you.” Bobby interceded, because right then Dean looked about ready to throw a punch. “Sam’s right, what’s done is done. We just gotta look ahead. You hearin’ me? _Dean_?”

            Dean turned his back on them, sliding a hand down his face, and Sam felt the sympathy pierce through him like a lightning strike. He could figure what Dean was thinking: they’d just gotten back on stable footing. Still had crap to work through—from Vermilion, from the Shifter case, from _everything_. And right when it seemed like they had a chance, this had to happen.

            Bobby’s concern seemed to match Sam’s. He stepped forward, laying a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Dean—”

            Dean shrugged him off forcefully and stalked out, still limping on that busted ankle; Sam heard the door slam behind him on his way out.

            “Well, that went well.” Bobby muttered.

            “Yeah.” Sam sighed.

            “Kid, I’m,” Bobby said awkwardly, broke off for a second. “I am so, so sorry.”

            The pain in Bobby’s voice did more to crack Sam’s resolve than anything else so far. He closed his eyes for a second, then plastered on a smile and lifted his head. “It’s fine. I’m good.”

            Bobby didn’t look convinced. “Sam—”

            “I’ll be upstairs.” Sam pushed up onto his feet and passed Bobby, clapping him briefly on the shoulder in passing. It was all he could manage at this point.

            Once the bathroom door was shut, Sam’s anger spilled over. Not anger aimed at anyone in particular, except maybe himself. Maybe the angel who’d kidnapped him and tortured him, helped tear his wall down. Maybe God. Sam grabbed a towel off the back of the door, wadded it around his fist and punched the wall so hard the window rattled.

            It didn’t do much to make him feel better; Sam unwound the towel slowly, breathing deep and steady, trying to calm himself down. He slung it over his shoulder and cranked on the faucet, letting the wash of water create a white noise that helped ease some of the pressure off of his racing mind.

            No more hunting. Five years ago that was all he’d wanted. Find his dad, kill the yellow-eyed demon, go back to Stanford and pray they’d take him back on. Back then he’d had the entire world at his fingertips and a bright future.

            Not anymore. Now he knew what he was, knew that the outsider’s chasm that he’d always felt spanning between him and everyone else at school hadn’t just been rigged up in his paranoid head. It’d been the evil in him, the demon blood isolating him from the inside out. And even though jumping in the pit had somehow seemed to cleanse him, had made him feel a little more pure ever since he’d gotten his soul back, the fact was the Apocalypse had taken a lot from him—from all of them.

            They’d lost more than people—like Jo and Ellen. They’d lost a feeling of innocence, something you just couldn’t hold on to when you were smack in the middle of the end times, watching the world burn and knowing it was happening, all of it, for _you_. And _because_ of you. So the only thing Sam had left was three people keeping him from losing his mind.

            One of them was fighting a war. And he was about to cut another one free.

            Sam splashed a handful of cold water on his face.

            So, yeah. Five years had changed a lot. Hunting was as much his life as it was Dean’s, as much as it had been their dad’s, and he couldn’t even hold on to that anymore.

            Sam shoved his hair back and straightened up, glanced at the mirror—and nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw the figure standing behind him. Sucking in a sharp breath, he turned around, bracing his hands on the edge of the sink behind him.

            “Castiel?”

            “I saw Dean outside, using a crowbar to demolish one of Bobby’s cars.” Castiel’s hands were in his pockets, shoulders hunched. “I take it your conversation did not go as planned?”

            Sam blew out his breath. “No, it went pretty much the way I thought it would.”

            “Dean is upset.”

            “More like psycho.” Sam joked, but it fell flat. He dropped his head, staring at the checkered tiles between his socks. “I know why he’s mad.”

            “Because he doesn’t want to lose you again. Not after you just retrieved your memories.” Castiel nodded slightly. “It’s  understandable.”

            Sam felt an uneasy prickle skitter down his spine. “That reminds me. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

            Castiel’s forehead pulled tight with concern. He sat on the edge of the bathtub, hands clasped, elbows on his knees. “What is it?”

             “I know who really pulled me out of the cage, Castiel.” Sam raised his eyes to the angel’s. “It wasn’t Crowley.”

            Castiel blanched, making the scruff on his vessel’s cheeks stand out like shadows. “Sam. I can explain.”

            “How could you _leave_ me down there, Cass? I was in _Hell_!”

            “I know.” Castiel said quickly. “And I know that it was my shame that kept me from searching for a solution.”

            “You knew what I was doing. While I was soulless.” Sam said, and Castiel nodded. Sam’s jaw shifted. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

            Castiel’s head snapped up. “I could never do that.”

            “I _killed_ people, Castiel, and it was _your_ responsibility to stop me!”

            “I was looking,” Castiel said tautly. “For a way back into that cage. I’d never dreamed it would be so difficult to pull a soul out. Sam,” He got to his feet. “Why do you think I was aiding Balthazar in the search for souls? Souls, which you know are a source of unimaginable power.”

            It took a second to click in Sam’s brain, and then his mouth went instantly bone-dry. “To rescue me?”

            Castiel’s broken expression struck Sam hard because it felt like looking into a mirror. He slowly sank down on the edge of the tub again. “It’s difficult to wage a war objectively when you aren’t fighting from a general’s perspective.”

            “You wanted me to have a body to drop back into once I had a soul.” Sam said softly, putting his back to the wall and sliding down until he was sitting. A breathless laugh burst out of him, a wry smile twisting his lips. “That’s why you didn’t kill me.”

“Yes. And now I see how much that has affected you. With your wall in ruins and your new condition. I never wanted this to happen. You and Dean are more important to me even than my brothers. In some ways,” Castiel looked away. “You _are_ my brothers.”

Sam nodded. “Thank you.”

Everything stayed quiet for a minute. Then Castiel cleared his throat.

“Anyway. It’s not of import. There’s nothing we can do now except continue to fight in any capacity available to us.” He stood. “It may be some time before you hear from me or see me again.”

Sam sat up straighter. “Why’s that?”

“Kidnapping and torturing you and your brother was Raphael’s fatal mistake. There are certain lines he should have known better to cross. And he crossed them anyway.” He shook his head slightly. “Raphael is gone. But his followers have fled Heaven and are blending in with the humans. Ciel and I must find every one and put the disloyal to death. This will be full-scale warfare, and I don’t want you or Dean or Bobby caught in the middle of it.”

“Yeah, well, that’s part of being family, Cass.” Sam levered onto his feet. “You can’t just cut us out of your fight.”

“That sentiment is effective in theory, Sam. But against Raphael’s followers, none of us is well-equipped. I’ve already lost many angels to this conflict, some who I would call my friends. I won’t make the same mistake with the ones I have left.” His expression softened. “I’ll do what I can to assure you of my wellbeing. But do not be offended if I don’t answer your prayers. It will be difficult to know who might be an angel of Raphael’s ranks, listening in for my location. Or yours.”

Sam swallowed down the fight; arguing with Dean for all of his life had taught him for the most part what battles to pick and choose, and this was a losing fight.

So he just stuck out his hand. “Be careful out there, all right?”

Castiel’s mouth arced back into a genuine smile. “Your concern is heartwarming, Sam.” He shook Sam’s hand. “I’ll be fine. Give my regards to Dean. And tell him I’m sorry it came down to this.”

He disappeared, leaving Sam standing alone in the middle of the room, empty hand curling slowly over into a fist.

“When’d you get so good at lying?” He said under his breath.

            Cranking the sink back on, he splashed another cupped handful of water onto his face, then braced his hands on the porcelain sides and took a good hard look at the mirror; that the face staring back at him wasn’t a stranger anymore—that didn’t make things easier. Somehow, seeing every side of himself in sharp relief made the shadows of innocence a lot less terrifying.

            Sam blinked, feeling a cold chill scraping its way up his back. He peeked over his shoulder, slow and careful.

            And watched the wall behind him crumble, sucked into a rushing black vortex of wind and freaky garbled screams. Like someone was getting the life choked out of them.

            _The Cage_.

            Sam couldn’t rip his eyes off of it. Couldn’t move.

            “Sam. Hey? Hey!”

            Something grabbed his upper arm, hard, shooting pain all the way up into his shoulder. Sam pried open his eyes.

            He was lying on his side on Bobby’s bathroom floor; didn’t remember falling or hitting the tiles. Dean was crouching over him, protective again. Like they’d never had that fight downstairs.

            “Sammy, you with me?”

            Eyes rolling slightly, Sam nodded, then felt his guts bottom out as his limbs jerked involuntarily. He dragged himself up onto one elbow and stared at the wall—perfect, or as perfect as mildew could be. No hole, no Lucifer’s cage.

            “Dude, what happened?” Dean moved Sam’s hair off his temple, frowning. “You musta banged your head on the edge of the sink.”

            Sam touched the splotchy area of blood around the shallow cut, the cold creeping around his spine and up into his throat. “It’s real, Dean.”

            The seizures. Everything.

            Dean swallowed. “Look, I was thinking…we can ask Cass, right? He’s sorta the one who got you into this mess, maybe he can drag you back out.”

            All circumstances aside, Sam wasn’t sure he wanted Castiel playing savior for him anymore. The angel had good intentions, Sam wasn’t denying that. But there was still the small factor of Sam’s scarred brain and the _soul_ he’d been missing that told him Castiel went about fixing things the way Dean did making breakfast: burning the buffet.

            “Castiel left.” Sam said quietly. “He’s not coming back.”

            “What d’you mean, he _left_?” Dean demanded.

            “I mean he went to fight the war in _Heaven_ , Dean. And he doesn’t want us to be a part of it anymore.”

            “Yeah, well, too bad. He saved us from Thor, he helped me solve that case in Vegas—hell, guy’s been a Godsend more than once, past couple months. ’Least we can do is return the favor, right?”

            “I don’t think so, Dean. I think we’re getting in his way.”

            “In his way.”

            “Yeah. I mean, look at Meg. She’d use us to get to him, and you know it. So does Cass.” When Dean just pulled a skeptical frown, Sam shrugged. “It fits, Dean. We’re his blind spot.”

            “Stupid feathery asshat.” Dean said with a little affection and a lot of exasperation. “Guess there’s not much we can do until he comes back asking for help.”

            “Not sure that’ll happen.” Sam said. He hauled himself up until he was sitting, pressing his knuckles against the cut to staunch the bleeding. Dean sat back on his heels, giving Sam that biggest sad eyes that made Sam’s chest hurt.

            “What?” He demanded.

            “Came up here looking for you.” Dean said. “I’m backing your play.”

            Sam didn’t have to ask what that meant; but somehow saying it made it more real: “You’re letting me stick around here.”

            “Not really my game plan, Sammy. It’s your life. Already talked to Bobby about it. He’s got enough work to keep your ADHD brain in gear.”

            Sam nodded slightly, trying to pull a mask on over the pain that made it feel like his whole life was splitting in two. “Thanks.”

            “Ah, don’t thank me.” Dean muttered. “I’m the one who’s gotta live in that empty front seat for the rest of my life.”

            They sat in silence for a few seconds.

            “Man, we just can’t catch a break, can we?” Sam said with resignation.

            Dean shook his head. “Not a chance, little brother.”

            “But, hey.” Sam added, and Dean met his eyes curiously. Sam pulled a smile. “At least I remember your name.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

_March 12 th, 2012_

_Singer Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, South Dakota_

“C’mon. Sam.”

            “No. For the two hundredth _time_ , Dean, _no_.”

            “Two hundred and one.” Dean kicked his boots up on the table. “Five minutes.”

            “You’re not talking me into this!”

            “Ah, c’mon, _Sammy_. Five minutes isn’t gonna kill you.”

            “For the last time, Dean? I am not getting in the car.”

            Bobby looked up from the books he was poring over in his study, glaring at the two boys sitting at the kitchen table, finishing off their beers. “You don’t got time to waste, Dean. You gotta get back to Arco and pick up that trail, pronto.”

            “Meg’s not stupid. She’s not gonna leave something behind that I can use to track her.” Dean stretched, tugging uncomfortably at the edges of his bandages, sprawling out on the chair. “I got time to kill.”

            “No, you don’t.” Sam said gently. “Dean, you’ve been putting this off for two days. You need to _go_.”

            “Tryin’ to get rid of me, Sammy?” Dean asked, taking a swig of beer. His brother had been all but shoving him out the door ever since their little heart-to-heart in the bathroom. Not like Dean was stalling; Bobby still wanted to keep an eye on his wounds, he didn’t have an good leads, couldn’t even ask Castiel for help, and—

            Yep, stalling like a friggin’ flooded engine.

            “All right.” Dean banged the bottle down on the table, pulling a face. “What’ve you got for me?”

            Sam shifted up in his seat, pulling a tri-folded stack of papers out of his back pocket. “Might have a lead on that Mohera monster thing. There was a mass-murder in a town about sixty miles outside of Tuscaloosa; bodies totally mutilated, and get this: bone marrow sucked dry.”

            “Leukemia monsters?” Dean sais skeptically.

            “Ha, ha.” Sam slid the newspaper clipping toward him. “Take a look.”

            Dean flipped it open and read over the mini-case file Sam had put together. His eyebrows rose. “This is good, Sam.”

            “Yeah, now that I remember how to do my job.” Sam sat back.

“So, what are we dealing with? Wraiths?”

“Probably some new breed of monster. Something else that slipped out of Purgatory?” Sam nodded to the paper in Dean’s hands. “Like the offspring in Vermilion.”

“Bobby?” Dean said over his shoulder. “You find any lore on Mohera yet?”

“I got a couple leads, I’ll get back to you on it.” Bobby said curtly.

“Well, that’s awesome.” Dean stood up and stretched again. “Guess I’d better hit the road.”

Sam gave him the big, huge sympathy eyes. “You take care of yourself out there, Dean, all right?”

“Yeah, sure.” Dean said gruffly. “You gonna get your crap out of my car?”

Sam smiled and got to his feet. “That’s not even subtle by your standards, Dean.”

Dean shot him a goofy smile. “Hey, whatever works.”

“I’ll be right back, Bobby.” Sam called as they headed for the door.

“Yeah, sure, just shut up.” Bobby grumbled.

“What, you’re not gonna tell me goodbye?” Dean asked.

Bobby threw a book at him. “ _Git_!”

The weather outside was finally clear for the first time in days, sunlight ricocheting in striations of diamond-fire off the six inches of snow piled against every visible surface. The Impala was the only car that wasn’t buried, and that because Dean had spent half the day before clearing her off and digging her out—with Sam’s help when he’d been afraid Dean would rip his stitches, the ones Bobby had applied after Castiel left because ‘ _no self-respecting hunter goes flyin’ off into the sunset with his chest bleedin’ all over the dash_.’

            They walked to the car, Sam with his hands shoved in his pockets. Dean slid into the front seat, cranking on the heat, watching in the rearview while Sam pulled out his duffle bag and slung it over his shoulder; the duffle Dean hadn’t bothered unpacking after they’d split over New Year’s. All Sam’s favorite weapons in there, a few clothes, his stupid laptop. Dean would just find a new one. Sam would go belly-up without it.

            “Sam.” Dean said when his brother slammed the back door. Sam leaned half-in the front seat through the open window.

            “Yeah?”

            “C’mon, get in for a second.” Dean said, avoiding Sam’s eyes. And maybe because he wasn’t making a joke out of it this time, Sam finally listened. Yanked the door open, climbed in shotgun and slammed it behind him, laying the duffle across his knees. He looked at Dean, concern all over his expression.

            “What’s going on, Dean?”

            “Nothing.” Dean reached over and cranked the heat up all the way, listening to the legos chattering together inside the vents. Realizing they’d had this for as far back as they could remember—this car and this life. Family. He still remembered the drive home from the hospital after Sam had been born—sitting in the backseat, listening to his parents sing ‘Hey Jude’ to a sleeping sausage roll cradled in his mom’s arms.

            Dean had never been one of those kids who wanted to take the new baby back. First time he’d ever seen Sam, Dean had been scrunched between his parents on the narrow hospital bed and he’d thought Sam just looked like he belonged right there.

            “Say hi to Sammy, Dean.” His mom had looked so damn proud and so damn beautiful, even with her whole face flushed and sweat sticking her hair to her forehead. His dad had been brushing the hair off her face, looking at Sammy like he was the coolest thing in the world.

            And then John had whispered in Dean’s ear, “He’s your responsibility, Dean. He’s your little brother. You make sure nothing ever happens to him, all right?”

            From day one.

            Dean rocked his head back against the headrest. _I tried. Dad, I tried._

            He could feel Sam watching him. “What are you doing, Dean?”

            “Nothing. Just gonna try to remember things like this.”

            Sam looked out the window and cleared his throat. “You’re wasting daylight, Dean. It’s a long way to Alabama.”

            Dean studied the ceiling. “Yup.”

            “You should probably get going.”

            “Mmm-hmm.”

            “Oh. Hey, I almost forgot.” Sam hunched his shoulders and tugged at something tucked under his jacket collar. He pulled off the amulet and handed it to Dean. “I think you left this behind.”

            Dean looked down at the tarnished mask, taking the punch to his stomach that came with it. Figured that the one time he left the stupid thing with Sam as a goodbye, his brother had to go through Hell to get him back. Literally. He slipped the thing back on over his head. “Thanks.”

            “Yeah, don’t mention it.” Sam reached for the door handle, then stopped. “Hey. Keep in touch, Dean, all right? You don’t have to do this alone.”

            That was pretty much what they were asking him to do, but Dean didn’t say it. No point in starting a fight right now, they’d have plenty of time for that soon enough. Dean could already feel that storm, brewing up on the horizon.

            “You know I will.” Dean said reluctantly. “Hey, look, I’m sorry.”

Sam blinked at him, looking more confused than ever. “Sorry for what? For leaving me behind? Dean, it’s what I’m asking you to do.”

“No, for this.”

Dean punched Sam, hard and fast, knocking him against the window unconscious. Shaking the sting out of his knuckles, Dean scruffled up his brother’s shaggy hair, fondly. “That’s gonna hurt like a bitch in the next two hundred miles.” He sat back against his seat. “You’re not the only one who gets to make stupid suicidal decisions. Don’t care about the seizures,”

Smirking, he reached over to crank on the radio, blasting a Kansas song through the car. And said, at the top of his lungs to drown out the organ solo:

 “You’re stuck with me, Sammy.”

            Spitting snowmelt from under the tires, Dean headed for Alabama.

            And for the first time in almost three months, the front seat finally wasn’t empty anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

 _"We have not touched the stars,_  
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back   
to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes,   
not from the absence of violence, but despite   
the abundance of it."—Richard Siken

 


End file.
